


(don't fear) the reaper

by scribbleb_red



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Charon!Wymack, Classical Underworld AU, Everyone is Dead, Ferryman Au, Ferryman!Andrew, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Just a pinch of smut, Knives, M/M, Protective Andrew Minyard, Protective Neil Josten, Spice, This is the underworld, ghost!neil, very soft moments too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 73,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19203064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribbleb_red/pseuds/scribbleb_red
Summary: Andrew and Neil don’t meet in life. They meet in limbo.Andrew is a Reaper – a ‘ferryman’ charged with taking the souls of the recently deceased through limbo to the Other Side.Neil wakes up dead – killed by his father – or so he believes.But as ever for our Foxes, nothing is ever as simple as it seems.





	1. prologue: (don't pay) the ferryman

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the AFTG x (loose) Ferryman AU that no body asked for but you're getting anyway. All thanks and kudos to Nora Sakavic and Clare McFall for the brilliant words that inspired this work.

He leaned against the wall and waited.

Another day. Another job.

Cigarette smoke trailed in the air, a slow furl of energy dissipating in the draught. He breathed it in, remembering the burn of lungs and rush of veins. He felt nothing.

He watched the corridor, the dirt-dinge light left only the faintest impression of the door at the end. His eyes never left the handle. Bored. Blank. There was nothing of interest here. No excitement. No flickering intrigue. He was killing time and nothing else.

 _Any minute now_ , he thought.

And there it was.

The fleet-footed slap of a rabbit trying to run. His lips curled, what a pity that the foxes were already waiting.

 _Better luck next time._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels? LET ME KNOW. 
> 
> You can also find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	2. (some kind of) ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There should have been footsteps, the shink-and-snick of sharpening blades, screams, pleas, something. But there was only silence. Neil was alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. No TWs but hopefully some feels.

 

 

**chapter one: (some kind of) ghost**

 

_Old Abram Brown is dead and gone, you’ll never see him more. He used to wear a long brown coat that buttoned down before. – 14 th Century Mummer’s Song_

 

***

 

 _Silence_. 

There should have been footsteps, the shink-and-snick of sharpening blades, screams, pleas, _something._

But there was only silence. Neil was alone.

He blinked his eyes open, lifted his hanging head. It hurt to do so, but not as much as he was sure it should – though he couldn't pinpoint why he felt he should be struggling.

What had happened? Where was he? He peered around the space. The room was a box, gloomy as a sepulchre – all raw concrete and dull lighting. Against the wall were three long shelves that sent his heart jackrabbiting in his chest. _Knives_. That was where they kept the knives. He dropped his gaze only to flinch so hard his spine creaked – a rust-red drain sat between his feet – and _knowledge_ turned his bones to ice, to fire, to a roar jolting all the way from his skull to his fingertips. He was in Baltimore, _knew_ he had failed, _knew_ he was in his father’s house and that he had to _escape_ if he was going to _live_.

He was alone now but how long could that last? He didn’t want to test his luck. Whoever had brought him here – Lola perhaps, maybe Romero – they clearly hadn’t thought he was going to wake up any time soon. His hands and legs weren’t bound. He _ached_ like he’d gone a round against a psychopath with a racket but seemed largely to be in one piece. There was no sharp sting of fresh cuts. No iron-stink of blood or old sweat.

Lurching on unsteady feet, he staggered upright only to trip over the chair he’d been slumped in and land hard on his knees. He crawled to the wall, used one of the shelves to pull himself up, saw the clean bright blades in their neat lines.

 _Take one_ , hissed his mother’s voice between the blood-rush in his ear, _and run. Take out anyone who gets in your way._

His fingers hovered over the handle of a filleting knife, the edge so sharp he couldn’t be sure where it cut the air.

 “Hey, kid.” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and Neil skittered so fast he took out half the shelf in his haste to grab the knife and twist. “Wow now, take it easy.”

 A large stranger filled the room, standing right between him and the door – surely he should have heard him come inside? had he never been alone? Neil’s head throbbed full the questions as he took in the man: wife-beater, tribal tattoos flaring over his arms, hands now carefully held back as dark eyes took in the knife brandished in his face. It didn’t matter that his beard was peppered with white, those arms looked like they could crush Neil as easily as a normal person snapped a carrot stick. _One chance_ , he’d have one chance to get around this guy or it would be his blood staining the drain red.

 “I’m not going to hurt you, kid,” said the stranger. “Put down the knife.”

 “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Neil said, gesturing at the room they were in.

 “I’m here to help—”

 “You can’t be serious,” Neil said, fingers tightening even as he tried to ignore how natural the knife felt in his hand. “No one with access to this room would help me.”

 “Very serious, and very much hoping to get you out without either of us coming to blows.” 

 “ _Bullshit_. Tell me who you are.”

 The man didn’t hesitate. “Wymack. My name is David Wymack. Some people call me Coach.”

  _Coach_. Neil wracked his brain, tried to recall if his mother had ever mentioned a bodyman called Coach, a torturer or a hitman named Wymack. _Nothing._

The weak light in the room made reading Wymack’s expression difficult. Neil didn’t recognise anything about him though, not his moniker, not his face, not those tattoos. Whoever he was, he hadn’t been around nine years ago. But what was to say that Neil’s father hadn’t added new names to his inner circle? Neil himself had twenty-two identities standing between who he was now and the tiny child that had fled with his mother. Just because the Butcher was in prison didn’t mean his criminal empire couldn’t grow, prepare, ready itself for their king’s return.

 “Look, kid, put the knife down and let’s leave before anyone joins us.”

 Something clicked. The man was lying to him. He could see it in the knot of his mouth, hear it the pauses between words. _You can’t lie to a liar though_. This was a trick. A ruse. Of course it was. They were toying with him. Providing false hope. They probably wanted to see what he’d do, watch him run, see how far he’d go, how hard he’d fall. His eyes darted around the room, checking for different exits and finding none but the steel door behind Wymack.

 “Okay,” Neil said, dropping his raised arm just a little.

 Wymack looked surprised, pleased. “Okay?”

 “Yes. Yeah, I’m saying okay.” Neil took a step forward, shying sideways to stay out of reach and closer to the door.

 Two greying brows drew close in a frown, “Nathaniel…”

 The sound of his own name – a name this man shouldn’t just _say_ like that -- sent Neil spiralling into action. He slashed the blade upwards even as Wymack seemed to realise his mistake. He ducked the muscled arms that snatched at him. He ran – because that was what he was good at – slamming through the door and bolting into the hallway beyond. He could see the stairs, imagine bursting out into his father’s study, tearing through the horrible old house… Neil refused to die here. All he knew, all that mattered, was not dying inside the Wesninski mansion. He owed his mother that at least.

 Neil wasn’t fast enough. 

 He was halfway down the corridor when he saw light catch on a halo of blond hair. Hurtling too fast to stop, Neil tried to dodge but a fist swung and slammed into his gut so hard it felt like his insides had been pushed through his spine. He was on the floor before he could register, scrabbling for purchase, breathing stuck, hollowed out and vision crackling, gagging on air. Pain seared in his hands, in his chest, in his legs.

 “Told you he was a rabbit.”

 “For fatessake, Minyard,” Wymack’s voice sounded furious and too close. “This is why we can’ have nice things.”

  _Not a thing_. _Not anymore._ Neil tried to rise. Couldn’t. Curled down around his stomach, hands coming to protect his head. The words around him blurred, kaleidoscoping around his skull in a pattern he couldn’t comprehend. _You’re spiralling, stop it_. He tried to breathe in. Tried to remember his mother: her slaps and pinches driving him onto his feet when he fell, her taunts and demands when he staggered.

 The world crackled black, then came into too-sharp focus as air finally gasped into Neil’s lungs. Wracking coughs had his head crashing into his knees. He was going to shake apart. Only his arms held him together, wrapped around his middle like putting pressure on a wound.

“Jove preserve me, Nathaniel, are you alright?” Wymack’s voice was right next to his ear, body so near he expected heat. Rolling away, Neil pitched to his feet only to run into different hands, strong and unrelenting, keeping him down, keeping him trapped. 

 He trembled but met his assailant’s blank gaze with a fierce one of his own. “Let me go.”

 “See, Coach, the rabbit isn’t broken.” Minyard’s eyes were the gold of bullet casings and just as hard. His attention drifted from Neil to Wymack. “Tick tock goes the clock. Get up. Let’s go.”

 “Fuck you.”

 Wymack sighed, moving so Neil was no longer pincered between them. Instead his body blocked the corridor ahead, which Neil wasn’t sure was much better. “Andrew’s a little raw on manners, but we should get a move on before we attract attention. You ok to walk, kid?”

 Gaze darting from one to the other, Neil couldn’t compute what was happening. Were these two for real? The idea of following them -- trusting them -- it was absurd.

 He wanted to say no.

 He wanted to bolt.

 But there was no way he could go back to the room behind them, where he knew only death waited for him. Well, and pain. Probably lots and lots of pain if his father’s people had anything to do with it.

 Forward was the only option. The only way for him to live. Even if Neil’s way of living was survival and nothing more. It was worth the new names, new cities, new languages. The little life he had carved for himself since his mother died had to be worth her sacrifice, his own.

 Survival instincts warred with need and twisted into an almost debilitating panic. Neil swallowed, found his throat closed to a pinhole. If they were serious about escaping the house, he could give them the slip later. He just needed to bide his time. _Wait for the opportune moment._ He kept his arms wrapped around himself as he finally managed to stand, glancing around for the knife he’d been carrying before and seeing no sign of it.

 Andrew Minyard’s gazed assessed him, mouth twitching as if he could read Neil’s thoughts and found them amusing. “Come on then, rabbit,” he said. “Don’t make our job any harder than it needs to be. Stick close.” 

 “This isn’t a good idea.”

 “Your opinion has been duly noted and dismissed,” Wymak said. “Now are you joining us or staying here to die?”

 His mother would have said the smart thing to do was resist. But Neil nodded anyway. And this time his assent wasn’t faked, just forced. 

 Minyard led the way, Wymack on his heels. Neil kept a cautious distance between them and himself, following despite the warning buzz beneath his skin that told him to just _run, run, run._

 The corridor led to a staircase and the staircase to a hidden door in the wall of his father’s study, which was mercifully empty. Before he could be thankful for this bit of luck, however, Andrew had flung open the study door and marched out of view. Horror lanced through Neil’s body – muscles tensing for the sign of a fight, gunfire, the thud of a body. Nothing. Wymack seemed similarly at ease, pausing only to make sure Neil was still on his heels.

 The house was exactly how he remembered it. Right down to the way the light filtered through dust motes. The high ceilings, the wide hallways, the walls pristine white and lined with paintings of hunts: wretched Actaeon torn apart by his own dogs, bloodied foxes strung up by their tails, blades flashing and ready to spear a great boar. The floor was still marble, varnished, hard to stain and easy to mop. They turned to the right, coming to the main staircase where Neil remembered standing for a family portrait, his father’s hand tight around the still healing burn on his six-year-old shoulder. The memory scorched through him, poker-hot. His chest felt too tight. His heart pounded in his temples. His gut was a Gordian knot full of sick-dark energy.

 Noticing yet another sidelong glance from Wymack, he resisted the urge to scratch at the old scar, felt an irrational and wild anger bloom in the wake of his fear. These strangers walked so casually through his father’s house, moved like they knew the place as well as – if not better – than he himself did. They had to know the horrors that took place here. The Butcher of Baltimore put H.H. Holmes and his murder hotel to shame – Neil had witnessed his father cut grown men to ribbons, heard their screams moaning through the house like a draught – yet Minyard all but sauntered from room to room, clearly giving zero fucks as to who they might run into. They had to know something he didn’t, something they weren’t telling him.

 He didn’t like it.

 Each step felt interminable but finally they were opening the double front doors, Andrew flinging them open in the same insolent way that made Neil huff with frustration. That earnt him another of those blank looks but he pretended not to notice, choosing to keep his attention on the various places people could be hiding – Lola, Romero, Jackson, _Nathan_. They could be anywhere. Escaping couldn’t be this easy.

 Sunlight spilt through the wide-open doors, weak and grey but full of a fresh breeze. Neil shuddered to a stop, felt himself lock up once more and stared.

 It really _couldn’t_ be this easy. How could they just walk out? Why hadn’t he been bound? Who were these men? Why were they helping him? What was going on? Why had no one stopped them? Why wasn’t he dead yet?

  _Unless,_ he thought. But the idea flinched away from realisation, stopped and started like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue.

 He saw the glances between his two companions and knew he was messing up, giving too much away. Then Andrew stepped away from the threshold, pale stare intense. Staying here wasn’t an option, Neil knew, but how could they just leave?

  _Unless_ , he thought again. From outside, a rumble of thunder snarled and Neil forced a jerky foot forward.

 “You alright there, kid?” Wymack must have noticed how he reacted to hearing his name.

 “I’m fine,” Neil said.

 Ignoring the next question sent his way, he stepped towards the door, passed Andrew, crossed the threshold and sucked in a deep, rattling breath. Baltimore tasted unfamiliar on his tongue, leaf-damp and gritty, the hot roads blooming with the smell of city petrichor. As he tipped his head back, the sky split open. Fat drops of rain splattered across the long gravel drive, pinging off the roof of the three cars parked there, stinging where they struck his upturned face. The next breath was more of a gasp. The third, a rough inhalation that barely snagged in his throat. With a sense of wonder, Neil unwrapped his arms and lifted them towards the sky and felt a bubble of laughter threatening in his chest.

  _Am I really walking away alive_? The thought was absurd. Being back in Baltimore meant death, that was the deal. He couldn’t survive his father’s house. Would never be able to just up and amble out.

 “Am I dead?” He asked. The rain pounded down on his hands. The smile that pulled his face apart was not his own.

 A string of curses left Wymack’s mouth but Andrew’s voice simply answered him, “Yes.”

 _I’m dead. I’ve died. This is death._ He laughed. “That makes so much sense.”

For the first time since waking up in that room, Neil felt his body loosen. Pain prickled in his hands but years of practice let him ignore it, he was more focused on the fact that everything was over. He didn’t remember exactly how he arrived in Baltimore or what happened before he woke up but when he blinked, he saw the imprint of a cleaver on his eyelids, blood-dark rivulets on pale skin, crooked fingers missing knuckles. He could guess what had happened.

 He hadn’t survived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	3. (used to the) darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The recently deceased had a tendency to panic, to try and negotiate with people like him, as if they were owed more time and the ferryman should send them back to the living. Not that Andrew cared enough to help someone cheat death. Sure, he had his deal with Wymack, but people didn’t seem to realise how very little their continued existence meant to him. They were dead. They should deal with it. Made his job easier if they did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the second chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Happy reading!

 

**Chapter two: (used to the) darkness**

_And we are here as on a darkling plain_

_Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,_

_Where ignorant armies clash by night._

_– Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach_

***

 

Andrew knew what a breakdown looked like and half expected Nathaniel Wesninski to treat them to a front row seat when he faltered in the doorway.

The recently deceased had a tendency to panic, to try and negotiate with people like him, as if they were owed more time and the ferryman should send them back to the living. Not that Andrew cared enough to help someone cheat death. Sure, he had his deal with Wymack, but people didn’t seem to realise how very little their continued existence meant to him. They were dead. They should deal with it. Made his job easier if they did.

It was the laughter that shook him out of mild annoyance to vague curiosity. Nathaniel – pale and trembling – had put one foot in front of the other into the daylight, into the brewing storm, and upon finding out he was dead, started laughing.

Bony arms stretched skywards, scarred hands reached out for the rain – everything in him seemed to have loosened with relief. Perhaps that wasn’t so unsurprising given the number of souls he and Wymack had collected from this particular house in Baltimore over the last few years… months… decades… time was a loose thing in the Wasteland. 

 Usually it took longer for people to realise they weren’t alive though. Nathaniel caught on fast.

“So what are you? Two devils come to collect what’s left of my soul?”

Andrew snorted, _maybe not so fast after all_. He was going to leave this one to Coach, but a flick of wet auburn curls dismissed Wymack’s initial attempt at an explanation.

“Look, you’re sure as fuck not angels if you’re here for me,” Nathaniel said, dropping his hands at last. Andrew stared at the pale skin, wondering if his eyes could be wrong. “So what are you? And what do you want?” 

“Bloody fates, you humans have no imagination,” Wymack grumbled and took a few steps forward. Nathaniel didn’t turn to him but Andrew noted how his shoulders bunched up once more. “We’re not angels or demons, kid, we’re Ferrymen. Or he is.” Wymack jerked a finger at Andrew. “Welcome to the Wasteland, you’re now on a one-way journey to the Other Side and Andrew here will be your guide. Any other questions?”

Nathaniel did turn this time, the grin that carved open his face barely easing. Maybe he enjoyed seeing Wymack’s frustration because the next thing he said was equally stupid. “Like limbo?” 

“It’s the land between worlds. You have to cross it. Everyone does. It’s your own personal underworld walkabout to help you accept that you’ve died and move on.” Wymack’s explanations were always boring but Nathaniel didn’t stop with that ruined smile. “Look, kid, we’ve picked up souls from here before, that’s why there’s two of us. We do this because we – _fine Minyard_ – I believe in second chances. Second, third, fourth, whatever, as long as you get to the Other Side, it doesn’t matter what you did in life, you get a chance.” 

The grin vanished and Andrew immediately decided he preferred it to the utter desolation that shadowed Nathaniel’s face now. It took two tries for him to push the next words out. “Why?”  

Usually Wymack had a line for this – some souls deserved it more than others; everyone received a ferryman but not everyone was met by one of the Foxes; because Coach was old as the world and was tired of seeing souls screwed over a hundred times by life and again by death – but if Nathaniel heard any such sympathies he’d bolt. That expression was the look of an animal ready to bite the hand holding the key to its collar. “Why not?” He pulled out the cigarettes from his pocket and rolled one between his fingers. “It’s something to do. Although, I’m beginning to think you’re not worth the effort.”

“Minyard…”

“No, Coach, don’t pretend us being here is anything more than fate. Do you believe in fate, Wesninski? Luck? Do you feel lucky?” 

“Only the bad kind,” said Nathaniel. “And it’s _Neil_.” 

“Does it look like I care?” Andrew tucked the unlit cigarette behind his ear. “What’s wrong with your hand?” 

“My hand? It’s fine.” 

“Liar, liar. What’s this then?” Andrew grabbed Neil’s wrist before he could react, twisted. The long palm was stained red, a bloody gash from thumb to pinkie. Neil tried to tug free but Andrew tightened his grip. “Looks like there’s a little more to this rabbit than we thought.”

The rain had become a deluge by this point, whisked up in a savage wind that stung even his skin where it struck. Wymack looked aghast. Nath- _Neil_ looked confused, if anything, unsure about the fuss.

“You’re bleeding,” said Wymack.

“I’m fine,” Neil repeated, shrugging narrow shoulders and trying to tug free once more.

“You’re dead and bleeding, kid, you are not fine. Minyard, you need to get him to the first safe house. I’ll go ahead, find the others.”

“I must have caught it on the knife. It’s just a graze. Let me go. I’m fine.” 

Andrew held onto him, though, kept his grip tight. He could feel the raised and ragged skin around Neil’s wrist and suspected his dislike of being trapped like this went further than just a general distaste for the situation. Still, he didn’t trust anyone who could bleed in the afterlife. It wasn’t natural. And it wasn’t the first time they’d seen it either.  

“He could be one of them.” This rabbit could put them all in danger. He didn’t trust him. He didn’t want him anywhere near the Foxes.  

“Doesn’t matter. You get him to the Tower. That’s your job.”

Wymack’s form shifted, a quick brown blur that twisted his hulking human body into an oversized fox with a coat patterned like tribal tattoos. Two fierce black eyes blinked at them as if to repeat Andrew’s obligation to him, then the creature turned and started to run, bounding away faster than any earthly creature had right to move.

An awed vowel slipped passed Neil’s lips, dragging Andrew’s attention back to the newly departed threat in his custody. “Can you do that?”

“If you’re asking for something true, little rabbit, you should start with some of your own.” Andrew kept his voice blank even though he could feel a snarl in his throat. Expecting him to deal with someone as stupid as this was going to take all of his hard-won control.

Annoyed, he huffed when he saw the wound on Neil’s hand still oozing. No matter who Neil was, the idea of forcing a victim back into the Wesninski manor just to clean his hand settled badly in his stomach. The rain was doing a decent enough job, if they bandaged it tight, Abby could take a look once they reached the Tower.

Neil snatched his arm away as soon as Andrew released it, putting a couple steps between them as he did so. Drenched by the growing storm, Neil reminded him of a blade – sharp edges glittering in the rain – but there wasn’t time to appreciate . Taking off his jacket, Andrew tugged free the knife he’d lifted from the floor after Neil fell and eyed his sleeve. If he removed the whole thing, they’d have more than enough for strips that could make do as wrapping for the hand. It was an awkward angle to cut at but he managed, ignoring the noisy inhalations of breath to his right. Neil might look like a blade but he was scared of them, maybe that was how he died. _Or didn’t die, as the case may be_. Again, Andrew had to curb the track of this thoughts. Speculation could wait, but that didn’t stop him from recognising Neil as a _threat._  

“Give me your hand,” said Andrew, shredding the sleeve into useful strips.

Neil didn’t step any closer, opened his mouth to lie again. “It’s f—” 

“Stop _lying_ , nothing about you is fine,” Andrew ground out. “Give me your goddamn hand so you don’t pass out on the way. We’ve eleven miles to cover before nightfall.” 

A beat passed. Two. Neil took a half step forward and stretched his hand out to Andrew. He no longer glittered like a knife, no longer looked dangerous at all. His uninjured hand was wrapped around his waist again, his body tense, pupils blown wide: he was terrified and he was trusting Andrew anyway.

Hate punched through his chest. _Fool_. _Threat._ He wished, not for the first time, he’d given this job to one of the others. Boyd would fucking love this kid with his broken smile and pretty face. Allison would have literally eaten him. 

Andrew wrapped the hand like he would a boxer’s, tight around the knuckles and wrist, looping around the fingers to put pressure on the gash itself. He did his best not to touch Neil, adjusting him twice with a nudge of his fingers. That would do for now. “Distance isn’t quite the same here but you’ll need to keep up the pace. We don’t want to be outside once it starts getting dark.”

“Keeping up won’t be a problem."

“Better not be.” Andrew didn’t want to draw any attention to them too soon. If Neil was dead, if he did need to crossover, it wouldn’t do for the night-ghasts to find them so soon. A sneaking suspicion told him this wasn’t going to be as simple as outrunning the raven-bodied demons that stalked the wasteland and necessitated the existence of ferrymen. Especially if Neil didn’t calm down and stop creating storms like this one. He glowered at the horizon. “Come on then.”

Neil followed a step or two behind Andrew, just out of arms reach like before and shadow-silent.

  _Good_ , he didn’t want to answer anymore pointless questions anyway. And with that quick mouth shut, Andrew could let himself appraise the bedraggled troublemaker. Lean as a clip-point, pale even for the dead, hair so red the rain couldn’t hide it – he reminded Andrew of a renaissance painting, everything just a little _too much_. Except his height. He was nearly as short as Andrew.

 His legs were long and steady though, finding a rhythm as the drive turned into road and from road into a dreamlike manifestation of Baltimore. For the recently deceased, the wasteland took on the shape of their projections, losing their reality the longer a soul stayed in the limbo land of between. Curious blue eyes lingered on the apparition-like trees, the shadow birds that swooped soundless between branches. A small frown twitched Neil’s brow, but he didn’t ask about the peculiar way the path twisted and turned, taking them from suburbs to parkland and back intermittently. These were dim vestiges of his memory, trying to make sense of the wasteland by building a layer over what really existed. But Neil clearly didn’t know Baltimore all that well and was already aware he was dead, making the illusion weak and uncanny.

They continued without speaking for nearly a full hour before the rain faded to a drizzle and the gale to a breeze, indicating Neil’s mood without the idiot even realising. Pathetic fallacy had always been Andrew’s least favourite thing about the wasteland, he hadn’t liked it when he arrived and he especially loathed it now as a glimmer of sun broke through the grizzling clouds and lit up the long path ahead. He was sticky-hot and his sodden clothes were heavy and uncomfortable, particularly the leather armbands that rubbed and tugged at his skin. Miles lay ahead of them and the humidity was repulsive.

 At least the sun was still high, they’d make it to Fox Tower before dusk if they kept going like this. He told Neil as much, receiving a small nod in return.

“Is your hand bothering you? Don’t say it’s fine.”

“It’s reached the throbbing stage.”

“That’s good, it means the nerves are intact.”

Neil shrugged. “I’m already dead, how bad can nerves really be damaged here?”

 _Such naivety_. “Bad,” he said. “You can be crippled. Your soul, I mean. When you’re alive, it’s protected by your body. When you die, you lose that safety. You’re vulnerable. You can die here.” This was more words than he liked to use, but he saw understanding dawn on Neil’s face. 

“And what happens if you die? Again. Here.”

“That’s it. Over.” Andrew snapped his fingers. It was most of the truth. There were fates worse than dying in the wasteland though. Neil would learn all about that soon enough. “Do what I say and even an idiot rabbit like you can get to the other side though.”

“Your persuasion techniques need work,” Neil’s eyes flashed with irritation. “And why the hell do you keep calling me a rabbit?”

“Prefer a little incentive?” Andrew skimmed fingers over his armbands and enjoyed the way Neil didn’t flinch despite knowing that was where he packed his knives. If anything the anger flared brighter. _Goddamnit his eyes were blue_.  “Don’t worry, Neil, I don’t need to be persuasive. You’ll learn to do what I say.”

“I really don’t think I will,” Neil said lightly. “People haven’t had the best luck bending my neck.”  

“No one ever mistook you for the quiet one, did they?” 

Neil shrugged, “Is this part of that honesty game you mentioned? A truth for a truth? Because if so, I’ve got some questions and I’m willing to trade you.”

Andrew blinked. Of course, the idiot had questions. The newly dead always did. But he recognised the lump in his stomach as surprise. He hadn’t thought Neil was really listening after Wymack did his little transformation trick.  “The answer is no.”

Neil didn’t have the grace to look disappointed, loping along at the same pace as if he hadn’t just been shot down. As if he heard the _for now_ implicit in Andrew’s tone.

Whilst the silence hung less comfortably, the sun continued to grow stronger in its slow descent towards the horizon. Cloud was burning off. The afternoon shadows growing long and dark on the road. The humidity even seemed to lift slightly, no small relief.

It was strange though.

Souls usually brooded on their deaths – storms like the one Neil had unwittingly conjured were commonplace, as were long days spent in the mizzle and intermittent snow storms.

Generally, people weren’t happy to find out they were deceased. Neil, however, seemed more loose-limbed by the second. He didn’t act like someone who cared that he was now amongst the dearly departed, barely seemed phased. In fact, if the strengthening sun was anything to go by, he was _happy_. Content. As retrievals went, it all felt a little too smooth, too easy. Sure, Neil showed some tokenistic resistance to start with but the waste land revealed his unnatural ease with his own death. Not even suicides were so relaxed about the Underworld.

Andrew trusted him less and less with every step.  

Saying that, other than the beginnings of a spectacular sunset, the rest of their journey was uneventful. The wasteland turned from Baltimore’s streets into parkland and then into an endless, empty highway. It made spotting Fox Tower on the horizon easy. He pointed it out and they covered the distance with fewer than two dozen more words between them.

To Neil’s apparent disappointment, a very human Wymack met them a mile out with little fanfare, although he did throw a questioning look at the sky that Andrew chose to respond to by holding up his empty hands in an innocent gesture only a food would believe. Coach scowled and began to prattle to Neil about how Fox Tower was one of several safe houses in the wasteland, set up to help provide sanctuary to travelling souls.

“Why do they need protecting? What’s out there?” There was an edge to Neil’s question that Andrew filed away for later.

“Night ghasts, mostly,” Wymack explained. “Creatures that feed of lost souls. As long as you’re not out at night and you’re with Andrew though, you have nothing to fear from them. That’s part of the role of a ferryman, to protect souls as they cross.”

Their conversation continued – _boring, boring, boring_ – so Andrew took to watching Neil’s body language instead. He flickered between personas – wary and fierce, withdrawn and attentive, curious and detached – sometimes as Wymack talked, he’d almost miss a step, eyes darting to the side as if looking for danger.

It didn't make Andrew any less certain that Neil was the threat. Trouble waiting to happen. 

 _What are you looking for_? _What could you possibly know to be fear out there?_ Andrew wondered, dropping his eyes to the Neil’s bandaged hand. _And could it have anything to do with the fact that you still seem to be alive?_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	4. live (outside)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Neil found wrapping his head around the idea of soul-eating monsters harder to fathom than the idea of being dead. He could accept walking in the underworld, leaving his father’s house behind, slipping his skin and abandoning his last tethers to life. But literal monsters? Hadn’t he survived enough already?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the third chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end. 
> 
> Happy reading!

 

 

**chapter three: live (outside)**

 

 _“Our backs tell stories_  
_no books have the spine to carry”_  
_― **Rupi Kaur**_

 

***

 

Fox Tower was nothing like Neil expected.

From the endless highway, the building looked like someone had picked up a college accommodation block and dumped it in the middle of nowhere. Now they were closer, it became clear that was exactly what it was: a modern tenement jutting up into the slowly melting sky. The isolation gave everything sense of unreality, but there was nothing spooky, nothing dilapidated or upside down or dreamlike. Compared to the journey they’d just made, it looked _real_ and _solid_ in the same way that Andrew’s presence felt at his side. It appeared like something _more_ than the rest of the wasteland. Like there was life inside.

Wymack discussing night ghosts or night ghasts or whatever, did not feel real though. Neil found wrapping his head around the idea of soul-eating monsters harder to fathom than the idea of being dead. He could accept walking in the underworld, leaving his father’s house behind, slipping his skin and abandoning his last tethers to life. But literal monsters? Hadn’t he survived enough already?

 _Don’t lose focus_ , he heard his mother’s hiss in his head _. Find out as much as you can from these men. Find a weapon. Run._

He plugged the flood-water panic by counting to ten in every language he knew. _Breathe. Breathe._ There was no time for this.

Walking had helped settle him. It wasn’t quite as cathartic as running but given the steady ache in his bones, Neil figured the slower pace had been sensible if not preferable. Plus, the hike made taking in the peculiarities of the wasteland that much easier. From what he could tell, the world around them shaped itself to his memories – at least to some degree. The scenery was Baltimore through the looking glass, a warped-mirror version of the city he left behind age six. It was like the dust motes in his father’s house: some of the things they passed were just too close to dreamlike - the shadow of a swingset looming too large in the park, as if seen from a small child’s perspective; the perfectly manicured shrubbery as they crossed by three, four, houses he knew had been demolished; the clink-and-shimmer sounds of the harbour that he knew were never audible in Leakin Park.

Still, whatever edges had been blunted by the mindless pace set by Andrew and his own small fascination with the wavering wasteland, as soon as Wymack reappeared – burly and brutish as the Butcher – fear sharpened his senses once more. He’d followed a near perfect stranger to an unknown location, was about to enter their territory, and every inch of him burned to turn in the opposite direction – _any direction_ – and not look back.

 _But what’s the point, mother? I’m already dead_ , he argued with the ghost in his head. And Fox Tower all but invited him inside. Lights were on in the windows. The closer they drew, the more he was sure music floated on the breeze. Trusting appearances was something he should know better than to do but when Wymack unlocked the door and ushered him across the threshold, Neil didn’t resist.

Inside was a riot of orange. Huge banners hung, slightly faded, but nonetheless bright. A running skulk of foxes were painted in an intricate mural full of vivid tails and laughing eyes. Someone had dawbed two phases on opposite walls: _Fight because you don’t know how to die quietly. Win because you don’t know how to lose._

Neil loved it immediately. He felt welcome – no, _worse_ , he felt safe.

“This way,” Wymack indicated with his head. “Everyone’s in the common room but you need to see Abby first, get that hand looked at.”

Neil hummed consent, following the way he’d been following all afternoon, an automaton trying desperately not to overthink, not to fall to the foreign succour of warmth and homeliness. Andrew, he noted, stayed at his back too as they lumbered their way up four flights of stairs. He’d imagined the other man shimmering away as soon as they arrived, not wanting to be around Neil any longer than necessary. But maybe this was all part of whatever it meant to be a ferryman. Maybe he had to go everywhere Neil went.

Frowning, Neil looked at his ferryman and hoped that wasn’t the case. Andrew met his eyes with a sidelong look of his own, tilting his head as if to tell Neil to stop staring… but Neil found himself unable to look away from the heavy gold gaze. He hated to think of someone being obligated to stick to him. It would make them that much harder to dodge when it came to running.

Whatever fleeting sense of security he’d felt before, it vanished when Wymack ushered him into Abby’s “office”. The room wasn’t an office and despite the promises, Abby was not the one who met them. Filling the room were two young men – one tall as Wymack but leaner, the other olive skinned and grinning – Neil’s every muscle tensed for a fight. Every exit his brain filed away since entering Fox Tower popped to the front of his mind.

“Oh hell-oh,” said the latter in a southern drawl tinged with something else, something European. “I’m Nicky and this is Kevin, Abby’s just organising some bits. You must be Nath—”

 “Neil,” Andrew interrupted.  

Confusion blurred Nicky’s expression for a half-beat before his smile dialled up a notch. “Oh I see, _Neil_ , well, welcome to the underworld! It’s lovely to have you. I’m sure you’ve been living all your life for this moment. I know I was.”

Neil blinked, going cross-eyed at the hand Nicky held in front of his face before raising his own. The rough bandages caught everyone’s attention. 

Anger fought against the grim realisation that Nicky wanted to see if he was really bleeding. This was another ploy. The wind beat against the windows, rattling the frames like a prisoner trying to escape their cell.

“Oh my god, what a _gale_ , huh?” Nicky said, looking a little pale. Unfortunately, he recovered fast. “So Neil, tell me, where did you come from? How was your journey with Andrew? Did you leave a cute girlfriend behind? A boyfriend? Face like that, you gotta have someone right?" 

Neil shrugged and tried not to glower. A smirk curled the corner of Andrew’s mouth and his bullet-gold eyes flickered to Neil once more. Neil wondered, not for the first time, if ferrymen had telepathy.

“That’s enough,” Wymack had apparently lost patience with all of them. “Kevin, what are you and Nicky doing here?”

“Well you said you had a ghost that can bleed,” Nicky said, apparently unconcerned that said ghost was right there and listening to his conversation. “We figured that given Kevin’s situation, maybe he could help Abby.”

 _What does that mean_? Neil wondered, feeling the cold drip of discomfort down his spine. His muscles were coiled so tight they hurt. Kevin remained silent, arms crossed, expression calculating. Why would he know anything about Neil?

“And you?” Wymack seemed more exasperated than annoyed and the over-exuberant Nicky was clearly going to take advantage of that.

“Because Erik’s still on a delivery and Allison was off with Renee and Boyd’s with Dan and it was just _too much_ , Coach. You know how much I miss Erik when I can’t travel with him.” Nicky whined, then turned his attention back to Neil. Neil wished he would stop. “Plus, how could I resist coming to meet a pretty face like this.”

The windows rattled again and a guilty wobble overcame Nicky’s smile. Wymack glared at him. “Well enough. Where’s Abby?” 

“Right here, David. I just had to collect a few herbs from Betsy.”  The woman who emerged from an ajoining room had a butter-soft smile and wrinkles around her eyes. Her hair was deep grey and knotted into an elaborate bun on her hair. Unlike the four men, she exuded a sense of brightness that made him squint. “You’d be Neil, then? I’m Abby. They’re not harassing you too much are they?”

But he momentarily no words except: “You’re _glowing_.”

She smiled. “I’m something a little different, yes. Are you comfortable with me approaching you?”

It was the way she bothered to ask that made him nod, that allowed him to offer his hand and undo Andrew’s careful wrapping. Neil was all too aware of Kevin and Nicky leering from a few paces back as well as the thin line of Wymack’s mouth. They all wanted to see the damage.

The gash was worse than Neil remembered and hurt like a bitch. Pulling away the makeshift bandage had tugged at the congealed gash across the top of his palm and reopened the wound. He stared at it, the deep dark line that nearly cut to bone below and he shivered, trying to repress the thoughts threatening to break free. Like the _shink-and-snick_ of his father’s tools. The _stink_ of his own fear and blood. _The flaring, flashing, fire-hot heat on his skin, the way it bubbled and burnt, the cooked meat foulness in the air._

“It needs to be cleaned,” Andrew said, his voice a deep rumble that disrupted Neil’s panic before he could fall too deep.

Neil drew in a rattling breath, another, started counting in his head as Abby directed him across the room to sit in a chair where she could better inspect his injury under a light. From here, he could see Andrew more clearly. With his white blond hair and pale skin, he was a washed-out phantom in contrast to Kevin and Wymack’s dark lines or Nicky’s rich umber tones. He also looked like the deadliest man in the room. No matter that he was shorter than Neil, he held himself like a mercenary: balanced, compact, a troubling intensity packed into a fighter’s frame.

 _Dangerous_ , screamed Neil’s every instinct.  _Run. Run. Run._

“This might sting a little,” Abby told Neil as she began to dap at his hand; it did, but he didn’t flinch. He let her do what she felt necessary, keeping his attention away from the wound as much as possible.

“What caused the injury?” Kevin asked when it became clear Abby was nearly done. It was the first time he’d spoken and Neil realised he had to be related to Wymack. The timbre of their voices was identical.

“Knife,” said Neil.

“This one.” Andew pulled the blade from his armband once more and Neil dropped his gaze. “He pulled it on Coach.”

Taking the knife, Kevin turned it back and forth to examine the angles, blade casting dots of light across the walls. Neil sucked in a breath, waiting – expecting – Kevin’s skin to peel open as easily his had but either the guy knew knives better than it looked or he was just plain lucky. “It’s definitely more than just a wasteland creation. Seems likely that Wesninski here dragged it in when he died,” said Kevin, passing the filleter back to Andrew.

“Neil,” Andrew corrected once more. He didn’t put the knife away. “So, it can’t cut you?”

“No,” Kevin said. “But it could hurt you, I think.”

Nicky leaned forward, “So Neil’s not like you?”

Kevin shook his head, “It seems unlikely.”

“Oh wonderful! Well there you go. Andrew, you can stand down—” Nicky began with a grin like staring into strobe lights.

“What about Riko? Could this knife hurt him?” Everyone in the room seem to freeze, Kevin’s eyes grew shadowed, Abby’s brightness dimmed, a smile-free Nicky shrunk down. Only the asker, Andrew, remained unaffected, twirling knife handle over knife point effortlessly. “Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, do remember that you have a spine. Could this knife cut the Raven King?”

“Possibly,” Kevin said, so quietly that Neil barely heard him. “And yes, there’s a good chance Neil is one of… one of them. He can bleed. He can manifest objects after death.”

Kevin grew paler and paler as spoke but Neil didn’t care.

 _He can bleed. Manifest objects. One of them_.

He didn’t like the direction of this conversation, hated being relegated to the role of object, being reduced and shrunk with no one even looking in his direction despite being the focus of their mistrust. Not understanding anything made him feel small. He’d spent his entire life feeling small. Like _nothing_. He wasn’t going to accept feeling that way in death too

“You lot want to explain any of this?” His question drew attention faster than a shotgun blast. Only Andrew looked bored. “Why is it such a big deal? You said souls can be crippled here, that we can die here. So why the hell does it matter if I _bleed_.”

“Because you _shouldn’t_. You can be injured here but injuries don’t look like this in the wasteland,” Kevin explained. He held out his own hand, not to shake but so the back was clearly visible. Neil felt sick. Thick black ribbons made a lattice along the thin bones of his knuckles, mottled grey seeping between the lines like ink. Whatever caused that injury hadn’t been a clean strike. “A… night-ghast… did this to me. This is the kind of injury we usually sustain in the wasteland. We don’t bleed. We don’t have weapons that can cut the souls of the dead like that knife.” 

From the haunted looked in Kevin’s eyes, Neil knew there was more than just night-ghasts at work. “Is Riko a night-ghast?"

Despair rippled through Kevin like a cold breeze over the Pacific, he turned from Neil to Andrew. “You tell him. Explain. Please…”

“You know how much I hate that word.”

Kevin slumped, stared at the black stain on his hand and Nicky tentatively patted his shoulder in the worst attempt at comfort Neil had ever seen. He looked pathetic.  

“Well?” Neil asked again, a frisson of fierce energy crackling under his skin. “Why shouldn’t I bleed? Who does that make me one of?”

“Riko isn’t a night-ghast.” It was Wymack who broke the news. “But he can control them. There’s a whole lotta history there but these days, he calls himself the Raven King and runs his so-called “Perfect Court”. They actively seeks to capture the dead before they can reach the Other Side, taking them, torturing them, turning them into more minions for him to control. Kevin was once part of that group, his second.”  

That didn’t clear up much at all. Neil wanted to know why this meant he was being treated like some kind of monster. “And other than telling me Kevin’s a bit of a prick, what’s that supposed to mean?”  

Andrew snorted. Said nothing.

Wymack scowled and continued. “Kevin said there was one thing all of the court recruits had in common. When they arrived, they could bleed. And the reason for that was because they weren’t actually dead. Not properly.”

“Not dead?” _The shink-and-snick. The stink. The fear. The rust-red drain. The flaring, flashing, fire-brand heat._ Neil had to be dead. He thought he was done, that he could rest.

“Dead enough to die. Alive enough to be a problem – especially if the Ravens get you. My theory: we get you to the Other Side and you’ll crossover and die fully. Whatever’s keeping you alive outside of all of this, it can’t be much. You should be able to move on like everyone else.”

Why did Neil have the horrible feeling that it wouldn’t be so simple? He nodded dumbly all the same. No matter what life dealt around him, he always had the hand that gave him just one more turn, just one more chance. Never anything good enough to win. Never anything weak enough to push him out of the game. Typical then, that he could still be alive. Somewhere _. In his father’s basement_. Somewhere. _Back in that chair_ , _surrounded by those knives_. With _that drain beneath his feet_ so he knew what would happen to his body eventually.

His heart crashed against his ribs, striking so hard he could feel the pound all the way through his collarbone, into his throat. 

 _Alive_. God, and he’d just begun to appreciate the freedom of being dead.

“Neil,” Abby said. “It’s been a long day. You need to get some rest. We can all talk more in the morning. Introduce you to the other Foxes.”

She stood up, clearly closing the conversation or any attempt at an argument with the others. These were her rooms and they had outstayed their welcome if her frown was anything to go by.

Easing to his feet reminded of all the other aches, the pains, the throbs and twinges carried under his clothes. His body was stiff with them. What other injuries had he brought with him to the afterlife? This was all too much. Too ridiculous. Borderline absurd. He brought his freshly wrapped hand to his mouth to cover the start of a smile – one that he knew would curve into a perfect replica of his father’s.

He heard, dimly, people discussing where to put him. No spare rooms. In with Boyd? But Dan was in town. Okay, with Nicky then? Absolutely not. He’ll room with Andrew. Keep an eye on the rabbit. _Don’t kill him_. The conversation no longer felt important enough to follow but he did twitch at that last one. The absolute bloody irony of being able to die twice. Of being threatened by a ferryman whose job was literally to help dead souls crossover.

Two taps on his elbow and he turned. Andrew stood just out of reach, burnished and blank-faced. _Come on_ , was clearly written on his face and Neil had just enough presence of mind to thank Abby and say goodbye to the others before following Andrew out and up yet more stairs and through more corridors.

They didn’t talk and Neil appreciated the time to unravel a bit more of the conversation. Wymack’s explanation barely scratched the surface of his questions. Plus, ever since the mention of Riko, there was a niggle in his head, a feeling like expectation that itched at the back of his memory. He didn’t know what it meant but it scared him. Scared him and shattered him. He wondered if his mom had gone through this when she died too, after he burnt her body and the car, buried her bones. Was she collected by a Fox? Did she crossover?

Andrew unlocked a door on the sixth floor, pushing it to reveal what looked like a reasonably sized apartment. It opened on a living area, a wide open plan kitchen and a lounge. There was a balcony at the back and two doors – one presumably to the bathroom and another to a bedroom. It was much, much larger than Neil anticipated.

“Bigger on the inside,” Neil mumbled and for a second Andrew’s face sparked with genuine amusement.

“Space and time aren’t so much of a thing once you’re dead.” It could have been an answer but Andrew didn’t direct the comment at Neil. He paced over the balcony and for a second Neil was sure he was going to throw wide the doors and let the raging storm inside. Instead he stopped, gave an irritated huff and pulled a packet of cigarettes. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Neil took two hesitant steps towards the sofa and paused. Andrew seemed distracted, lighting up a cigarette and watching the lightning flashes outside. Maybe he could just slip away. Maybe he could reach the Other Side on his own. His eyes found the door and lingered.

“Oh my, little rabbit, do you want to run away again?”

A hand came up against the small of his back and shoved. The push sent him crashing into the wall, away from the door. Neil pivoted so fast he nearly staggered – and it was Andrew’s smirk that made him snap. Suddenly, he was just done. Done with this relentless antagonism. Done with the snarky nicknames. Done with being treated like he was obligated stay when clearly no one wanted him there at all, least of all Andrew.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“You mean it isn’t obvious?” Andrew drawled. “Most of them think you’re just like them. So what you can bleed, that’s just bad luck and coincidence. Kevin knows better. So do I. I think you’re something a little less innocent that you’re pretending. Something a little more like Riko.” Andrew placed his arms either side of Neil’s shoulders, not touching but leaning so close Neil could feel heat off his body. “Tell me, did you come here on purpose?”

 Neil was baffled as he was curious. “Are you asking if I killed myself? Because the answer to that is no. I don’t,” he cut himself off. “Wait, is this why you keep asking if I’m one of them? You think I’m some kind of mole? Are you kidding me?”

 “I don’t trust you,” Andrew said. “I don’t trust your name. I don’t trust your death. You, a know-nothing from the Butcher’s basement who somehow bleeds just like the Raven Court. You, a lie from head to foot, that laughed in the face of death and insists on being called _Neil_. We’re ferrymen, we know the names of the soul’s we collect.”

 “I am not a mole. You’re insane if you think I am. Who would I be fucking _moling_ for anyway?”

 “Prove it then,” Andrew dared him. “Tell me something without lying through your teeth. Tell me who Nathaniel Wesninski is.”

 Neil bared his teeth. “I offered you the truth before. I offered you truth for truth.”

 “And I’m not giving you shit until I know you’re not a threat to Kevin.”

 That made Neil pause. “To Kevin?”

 Andrew shrugged, his eyes molten and too intense for Neil to meet. He dropped his head and sighed, realising how little he knew about any of the ferrymen. He didn’t know how they worked. How much they saw of the life lived by the dead. He didn’t know what they were, either. Had they been human like him once? Why was Abby different? And how could Wymack turn into a fox? He wanted to know if Andrew could do that trick too.  

 “I don’t know of any reason why I would threaten, Kevin,” Neil said slowly. “I barely know how I died. Probably bled out.” _Shink-and-snick. Bubbling skin. The glinting cleaver_. “I didn’t come here on purpose. I’m not here for a reason. I just…” He had to give Andrew something true. “Nathaniel Wesninski was my first name. I’ve had twenty-three names in the last nine years.”

 The truth came forth in jagged pieces, sharp and painful. He didn’t like talking like this. He wasn’t used to telling people anything real. He swallowed through the tightness in his throat and forced himself to meet Andrew’s stare. This close, he could smell the cigarette smoke on him. It reminded him of his mother. And the car. And her white bones gleaming against wet sand. He held back a shiver.

 “And why are you here?”

With that question, Neil realised that Andrew could see through him, knew he thought about running every second since they started walking through the wasteland’s uncanny Baltimore, knew he was deliberately not looking at his memories or looking too hard at the scratch in his head about Riko, _knew he was afraid_. 

 _Don't say anything_ , his mother's memory hissed.

But what was the point in lying? He was dead. Or kind of dead. Why hide anything anymore? 

Neil felt the ghost of his father’s smile on his face once again. This time he didn’t hide it. Couldn’t stop the flood of words that choked their way out of his chest either. “Because I spent my whole life trying to survive. Staying alive was all there was. I was glad to be dead though, glad all that was over. I thought I was free. I thought I was free and I didn’t have to keep running and that you were taking me to crossover and I’d see my mother on the other side and I’m _nothing_ – I’ve always been nothing – and I-”

Andrew reached out and cut off the stream of broken, pathetic words spilling from Neil's lips. One hand closed over his crescented mouth and the other over this throat. Neil's pulse beat so hard he could feel it hitting the pale fingers holding him down. There was no censure in Andrew's expression, no victory, but also no trust.

 Whatever this look was, it was dark and intense enough to swallow Neil whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	5. (heavydirty)soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Like all of the inhabitants of the waste land, he didn’t really need to breathe, didn’t really have lungs or a pulse or a heartbeat, but for some reason it was easy to pretend that he did tonight. Memories of being alive loomed close – few of them good – and Neil, the walking undead disaster, was to blame."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the fourth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. 
> 
> This is also the first chapter with a proper warning, so TW: there is reference to graphic violence, torture, and psuedo drug use in this chapter. If you want to skip those sections, read up until the break indicated by three stars (***), there's a summary at the end of the chapter. 
> 
> For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify (Links at the end)
> 
> Happy reading!

 

**chapter four: (heavydirty)soul**

_Between the idea_

_And the reality_

_Between the motion_

_And the act_

_Falls the Shadow_

_\- T._ _S. Eliot, The Hollow Men_

 

_***_

Andrew stared at the door to his bedroom and took a deep drag of his cigarette. Like all of the inhabitants of the waste land, he didn’t really need to breathe, didn’t really have lungs or a pulse or a heartbeat, but for some reason it was easy to pretend that he did tonight. Memories of being alive loomed – close and dangerous – and Neil, the walking undead disaster, was to blame. 

He exhaled, recalled the sting in his nostrils, let the billow of smoke distract him. Breathed in. Thought about the way Neil shook under his hand, not because he was scared of Andrew but because of the contents of his own thoughts. Andrew wasn’t arrogant enough to presume otherwise. He hated Neil Wesninski. The familiar emotion swelled and broke, a constant rolling wave like an angry ocean inside him.

_Twenty-three names. I’ve always been nothing. I thought I was free._

These were not the truths he wanted. They did not prove anything. But there was no doubt in his mind that Neil believed them, that they came from honest, soul-deep pain – the wobbly edges of an approaching panic attack gave that much away. If the night-ghast ever got hold of Neil, they’d feast on that blind and instinctive terror.

He sucked another burning breath and stood up from where he’d been pretending to rest on the sofa, having given Neil the bed with the promise that it was only because it put Andrew between him and the door.

Andrew reflected on Neil’s fear. The genuine misery. He considered the apparent surprise at him mentioning Kevin, as if Neil had never heard of him. He rewound through their conversation in Abby’s office, the poorly concealed trembling and curiosity around Riko and his murderous nest of Ravens and night-ghast. Neil wasn’t a math problem, but he was still going to solve him. He had a pretty good idea of where to start too.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Andrew unfolded himself from the sofa and headed out into Fox Tower, only stopping to lock the door, not with the key this time but with a palm pressed to the frame to ward it. No one was entering or leaving without his permission. Not that he thought Neil would wake up, the rabbit was exhausted. 

Step one: Kevin. Step two: Betsy. Step three: Neil had a decision to make and Andrew would have to respond accordingly.

Kevin lived a floor below, along a dark corridor reminiscent to being backstage of a television studio. It suited the melodramatic idiot, something Andrew regularly enjoyed telling him, but tonight his mood didn’t lend itself to antagonising anyone for amusement.  He pushed back folds of cloth to reveal Kevin’s front door, didn’t knock (because fuck politeness) and barged in to a familiar sight: a very upset Kevin Day knocking back shots like his life depended on being unable to remember his own name.

Andrew wouldn’t pretend to be a man of healthy vices but, honestly, he was tiring of Day’s mawkish and petulant attitude towards any kind of threat. If he didn’t grow more of a spine, the deal they had wouldn’t hold up much longer.

“What’s your poison tonight, Day? _Mead_? Or have you gone straight for the _bakkheia?_ ”

“Andrew?” Kevin said blearily, eyes watery and vague. “Watchu doing here?”

“Came to find out a little more about your precious Ravens but it looks like this trip might be good for more than one reason. How’s that crumbling psyche of yours doing? Wishing you could fly away on those clipped wings of yours?”

Okay, so maybe he was in a mood for a little rankling.

Andrew strode across the room and lifted Kevin to unsteady feet only to push him into a chair near the window. With Neil asleep the storm outside had died down somewhat, so Andrew threw them open and let in the frigid wind. It would do a better job of bringing Kevin back to the land of the sober than anything else. And it had the added benefit of ruining that perfectly styled hair and any sense of self-image to which Kevin still clung.

“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, how am I meant to hold up my part of our bargain if you’re holding things back, hm?”

“M’not holding things back.”

“Don’t tell fibs. I’ve always known there’s more to your story, but I wasn’t expecting a baby rabbit to meet all of the criteria you warned us about.” Kevin’s eyes were muddy puddles in his face, brimming with shadows that Andrew seriously did not have time for. “You told us to look out for hollow men – the ghosts that could bleed. How does it work?" 

“S’other way round,” Kevin said, looking miserable. “They become hollow men.”

“You also told us they were part of Riko’s court, that they were part of what made him powerful. Tell me how and why.”

“Ho-hollow men,” Kevin stumbled over his words. “Stuffed full of straw, where’s my drink, Min-minyurd? Can’t I have my drink back?”

“No. Talk.”

“The hollow men _are_ his court. That’s why they do every every everything Riko says. They give him their will and he stuffs them up, full, all stuffed up. Like balloons.” Kevin hiccuped and his mouth drooped in a pitiful show of nostalgia. “Do you remember balloons? I remember balloons.”

“You can get balloons here. Why are the hollow men important to Riko?”

Kevin looked at him as if he was stupid. “Because they _are_ important.”

Andrew was going to backhand Kevin out of the window if he didn’t pull himself together soon. He left briefly to grab a glass, fill it with water, and then thrust it into Kevin’s hands.

“My drink!”

“Yes, knock it back like a good boy.” Andrew used two fingers to tilt the glass until Kevin was forced to guzzle the water down. He took back the glass, refilled it, and gave it back to the inebriated ex-Raven.

“That was not my drink.”

“It is now.” Andrew did not have the patience for this. “Why does Riko need people like Neil?”

“Because that’s how he can control the night-ghast.” Kevin said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. But he’d been holding this back from Andrew, and a sober Kevin would no doubt never have the guts to talk so candidly.

“I thought you were how he controlled them?”

“Pfft no, no, I told you this I’m how he makes them. I’m why they exist.” Kevin looked ill. “I did this to everyone. I didn’t mean to…”

Andrew rolled his eyes. Kevin had indeed told him this part before and his misplaced guilt hadn’t helped then either. It wasn’t his fault, after all, that his father was a lower-order death deity that unwittingly impregnated a mortal and left his demi-god son with the ability to create new night-ghast. It also wasn’t his fault that Riko found him first and tried to make Kevin his second in the court. It _was_ his fault that he let himself remain a coward, drowning himself in honeyed-wine night after night.  

Kevin was still rambling so Andrew kicked his chair, shutting him up. “And why does Riko need to control the night-ghast?”  

If it was possible, Kevin lost even more colour, becoming a shade of off-milk. His lips wobbled prophetically. “Riko’s going to come for me, Andrew. He’ll come for me now there’s a new hollow man for his death cult. He’ll come for me. Don’t let him take me away. I don’t want to go, to go away.”

“Look at me,” Andrew waited for Kevin to meet his eyes. “It will be fine. We made a deal. I won’t let him take you anywhere.”

Which, of course, was Kevin’s signal to start bawling. He really was a terrible drinker.

More questions needed to be asked but Andrew realised they were unlikely to be answered tonight. _They give him their will_. What did that even mean? He still didn’t have the full picture about the Ravens and the hollow men, certainly no understanding of why Kevin considered them stuffed like balloons. Yet there was enough to go on. The hollow men were what controlled the night-ghast and Neil, somehow, was tipped to become one.

There was only one essential thing left to ask. Andrew took the glass from Kevin’s hands and waved his own in front of Kevin’s face until the puffy-eyed idiot looked at him. “Do you think Neil is a threat?”

Kevin wavered, long and slow blinks the only indication that he heard Andrew at all. Finally, in a voice weighted by tiredness and garbled by drink, he admitted, “He cou’be. Hasta, has to know what he is. If he’s here, he’s has to know his place.”

Resolve settled in Andrew’s bones, familiar as it was disappointing.

He would need to speak to Bee.

Step two was go.

Betsy was not drunk when he arrived around fifteen minutes later and despite the odd hour looked happy to see him.  She waved him into her rooms – all forest green walls and a thousand thriving plant pots – with a smile and an offer of hot cocoa. He nodded and attempted a smile that failed spectacularly. He wasn’t used to expressing emotions any more than he was used to feeling them. Which was yet another reason why Wesninski was an issue.

“Rough night?” Betsy asked as she passed him a mug. It steamed pleasantly and he inhaled the scent of rich, dark chocolate.

“Not in the sense you’re thinking. I did, however, wrestle an emotional Kevin into bed barely twenty minutes ago so this is appreciated.” A shot of something wouldn’t have gone amiss either but the underworld wasn’t so hot on decent bourbon.

“I imagine coming face to face with someone like Neil would unnerve him but how are you finding the situation? It can’t be easy for you either.”

“It makes my job difficult, yes,” Andrew said. Neil’s arrival definitely put a spanner in the routine of being a ferryman, not to mention compromised his ability to keep his promises. Then again if Kevin was just going to roll on his back like an obedient dog as soon as Riko made his next move, their deal wasn’t going to last much longer anyway. Favouritism, deception, betrayal, how familiar.

“Your job as a ferryman or as the Foxes unofficial protector?”

Andrew’s grip on the mug became dangerously tight. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Okay.” Betsy nodded and sipped her cocoa. He hated her patience with him. How it made him remember what it was like to be human and vulnerable. “So, what do you want, Andrew?”

 _Nothing_. He wanted _nothing._ That was the whole point. And damn she was doing this on purpose. “Your off-brand of therapy isn’t why I’m here, Bee,” he said, grinding the words out between his teeth. Still, saying why he was there was harder than he liked. “I need some of your aletheian tea.”

Her dark eyes widened, doe-like in their surprise. He felt a surge of pride at catching her offguard, swiftly followed by loathing. She was only trying to help. “May I ask why?”

“Neil needs to know how he died.”

“I see. And has Neil agreed to this? Does he know what the herbs do?”

“He will.” Or Andrew would wash his hands of him, his welcome in Fox Tower rescinded.

It wasn’t much of a choice but he’d make sure Neil understood everything – including his options – before anything happened.

That thought made Andrew pause. When he first arrived in the waste land, he probably wouldn’t have thought twice about doing what he now knew was necessary. In all likelihood, he would have broken into Betsy’s stores, stolen the tea, and dosed Neil without telling him shit. Being dead was making him soft. He scowled and took a glug of his drink.

“I’ll give you the herbs if you answer one question for me.” Betsy never negotiated for answers but he understood why she might for this. He nodded assent. “Are you thinking of offering him a deal if he proves his trustworthiness?

“I don’t know yet,” he said with only a little reluctance. He really wasn’t sure. It depended on what their conversation unearthed. Neil’s confession from the previous night echoed in his head – _I’m nothing. I thought I was free._ – and he had to admit: “It’s a possibility I am considering.”

That seemed enough for Betsy. They chatted a while longer before she retrieved a small bundle and explained how he needed to steep it for at least five minutes in order for the tea to have full effect but no more than eight minutes if he didn’t want Neil to be unable to stop talking once he started. Andrew filed away the information, remembering his own experiences with the tea all those years previously.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Betsy said as she walked him to the door.

He didn’t say he agreed with her but did lean into her hug as they bid goodbye, which was kind of the same thing.

***

Morning broke, grey cloud tangling beneath orange skies and Andrew bolted into consciousness with all the grace of a cat missing its jump. Twisting on the floor where he’d landed, he gave a small groan and sheathed the knives drawn in his half-conscious fugue. His back was stiff. His eyes dry and itchy. It took a moment to realise that the red head hovering in the kitchen was to blame for his unceremonious wake up call.

“That had better be fucking coffee,” Andrew said. Annoyance twinged like an old injury, ticking in his jaw. He couldn’t believe he fell asleep when there was so much to do. And now he felt worse than if he hadn’t slept at all.

“How do you take it?”

“Six sugars and condensed milk,” said Andrew. “Oh rabbit, don’t look so stricken. We’re already dead, might as well enjoy the perks.”

Neil scowled at the sticking moniker and grabbed a second mug from the hooks along the wall before rummaging in the cupboard for sugar. Andrew could have pointed it out on the shelf above the oven, but Neil puttering in his kitchen left him with coiling, twisting sensation in his stomach. He wasn’t used to strangers infiltrating his private space.

Finally spotting the sugar, Neil grumbled, “You could have said something.”

“Could have, should have, would have but where would be fun be in that?” His usual drawl was more of a rasp this early in the morning, almost like his body was reacting to yesterday’s smoking.

For someone who’d been ready to scarper the night before, who’d quivered and threatened to shatter beneath Andrew’s touch, today Neil seemed rather relaxed. He was dressed in the same ratty clothes as before, ill-fitting jeans and a threadbare hoodie, but he wasn’t cringing or cowering. He moved economically, like a sailor with one hand always for the boat, eyes always scanning the horizon.

 _Checking the exits_ , Andrew corrected himself _, he’s holding himself together but he wants to know he can run._  

With steady hands, Neil poured the cafetière into two mugs, leaving one black and adding the sugar one spoonful at a time as if waiting for Andrew to tell him it was all a big joke.

“And the condensed milk.”

Neil sighed and added the thick, sweet liquid until Andrew told him enough.

“Sit,” Andrew said, dragging his ass to the stools along the breakfast bar. He figured Neil would be more comfortable having this conversation with the island between them rather than in the space they’d spoken last night.

He waited until Neil was perched on the chair, nerves still noticeably absent, before starting.

“I don’t trust you,” Andrew said and saw from Neil’s baleful glare that the feeling was mutual. “And I also suspect there’s more to your story than just being a runaway.”

Neil looked like he might interrupt so Andrew raised a hand.

“If I thought you posed any immediate threat, I’d have gut you with that pretty knife of yours yesterday. As it is, I’m willing to make a deal. These are aletheian herbs. They make a tea that will help you remember how you died and encourage you tell the truth about it. You tell me everything you know about how you died, I’ll help you cross over, no matter who or what you turn out to be.”

“Alethian…” Neil murmured, reaching out to inspect the small bundle Andrew offered. “Like a _truth serum?_ ”

“There’s a little more to them than that, but if you need simple words…” They were herbs grown along the path Orpheus took on his doomed attempt to save Euradice, then gathered by a daughter of Apollo during a full moon, but the details were extraneous.

“And you’re saying I have a choice?” Neil sounded tired. Tireder than tired. Weary with life. Even if Andrew felt little to nothing anymore, he recognised that exhaustion easily.

“Yes.” Andrew held Neil’s gaze. “Although if you decide not to, I’ll know you have something to hide and we’re done, you’re out of the Tower and you can make it to the Other Side on your own. Souls do it, it’s not impossible.” But it probably would be for Neil, with all those terrors hidden below his skin. The night-ghast would smell him as soon as he stepped outside.

Neil considered it, Andrew could see the pros and cons being weighed up behind vivid blue eyes. “But it’s easier with a ferryman, right?”

Shrugging, Andrew turned his palms upwards. “We know the way and where the safe houses are. We can protect you from the night-ghast and Riko’s court.”

“Isn’t Coach your boss or something? Why do you get to decide this?”

“Or something.” Going into what Wymack was or was not could wait until Neil was definitively not a problem in need of handling. 

Huffing a sigh, Neil sipped at his tar-black coffee (which added at least an extra per cent to the likelihood of him being a psychopath) and stared into the countertop. His expression was curiously blank and Andrew almost missed the frantic panic of the night before, at least then he’d been easy to read.

 “How much control will I have over my answers?” Neil said, still focused on the coffee mug and the counter top. “I know you need me to tell the truth but if it’s too much, if I need to stop, will I be able to?”

 The urge to make a joke about safewords flickered across Andrew’s mind but he swatted it away. Consent wasn’t a joke, wasn’t to be taken lightly. “Once you start talking, you’ll have very little control. It feels a lot like being stoned – you’ll feel like you’re floating but when questions are asked, you’ll feel focused and have an urge to talk to me, to tell me as much as possible. You won’t be able to lie.” Andrew rolled his shoulders, lifted Neil’s chin with two fingers so their eyes met. “But you will be able to say no. If you ask me to stop a question, I will unless it’s absolutely essential.”

 “And I’ll remember everything? It won’t be like… I won’t pass out or wake up with holes in my memory about this?”

 Andrew did not want to worry about what Neil could be thinking of as a comparison. Rohypnol? GHB? He knew he tended to think of worst-case scenarios but Neil was asking about control, it seemed unlikely he fed a dependency like Kevin with his mead. “You’ll be tired but you’ll remember everything.” He certainly had.

 Neil sucked in a breath and Andrew felt him swallow against the tips of his fingers. Snatching his hand away, Andrew ignored the burn where his skin touched Neil, the way his insistent pulse picked up. It had been years since he’d last considered himself human, but Neil was undeniably attractive with his freckles and his lean runner’s physique. Gods how Andrew hated him.

 “Okay. How do we do this?” Neil pushed back from the island and stood, resolve in every inch of his body. He looked ready to fight, ready to fall.

 “Take the sofa. You’ll feel pretty loose when the tea hits, make yourself comfortable.”

 Andrew put on the kettle, dropped the herbs into a pot and waited. As the tea stewed, he counted the seconds. _Five minutes_ , Bee said, so he pulled the leaves out at five and a quarter just to be sure.

He poured the tea and placed it in front of Neil. They had a few moments of quiet as it cooled, Andrew sitting cross-legged opposite Neil in the large, wing-backed chair he generally preferred for reading.

“After this…” Neil began, stopped, chewed on his full lower lip, started again. “When this is done, will you answer my questions?”

Andrew thought about it. If Neil turned out not to be a threat, there would be no harm in agreeing to share some information. “I’ll play your secrets game. You can take the first round.”

“The first three rounds.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Two.”

“Deal.” Neil grabbed the cup and downed the tea in one. Moaned. “Oh fuck, I burnt my mouth.”

Andrew had to breathe in, out, remember the exercises Bee taught him. Moaning was not meant to be part of this conversation. He gathered himself, watching for the moment that Neil’s body began to droop, his pupils blowing wide as the nightsky. A silly smile began to spread before Andrew decided they were ready.

“How are you feeling, Neil?”

“Blurry,” Neil said. “Like you’re really far away and really close at the same time. You smell good. Kind of like the sea. Did I say that out loud? Oh, I see how this works now.”

 _This is going to be horrible_ , Andrew grimaced and did not – absolutely did not – pay attention to the rosy blush on Neil’s cheeks. At least the tea seemed to be working.

“Let’s start easy: tell me your name.”

Neil blinked at him and that smile drooped slightly. “Abram,” he said. “The oldest name I have. Mom used it to protect me and then when we ran it was the thread holding all the patches together… First Nathaniel Abram Wesninski, then Bram Lyle. Alex Abrams. Stefan Abramovich. Chris Abramson. There were so many names. I died Neil Abram Josten.”

 _Not so easy then_. Andrew expected Neil to simply share his birth name again but either the tea steeped too long or Neil genuinely felt these names all belonged to him. _Abram_ , though, like sunsets and turning tides, that sang of truth.

“Alright, _Abram_ ,” Andrew said, testing the name and was momentarily stunned by Neil’s bright grin.

“Sounds nice, when you say it,” Neil said in explanation.

 _Oh for fatessake,_ what had Andrew done to deserve this _?_ “I need you to think about the night you died. What do you remember?”

“Remember?” Neil’s grin withered away into a thin frown and a worried lip. “Nothing… I woke up alone. There should have been _something_. I should have been tied down…”

Andrew cut him off. It didn’t matter how Neil woke up, they needed to go further back than that. “Picture the room, Abram. How did you feel? Were you cold? Hot? What could you smell?”

Immediately, Neil’s breathing grew ragged. “I was _cold_. So cold.” His voice quivered. “My bones hurt it was so cold down there.”

“And what else did you feel? Let’s do a body scan, start with your right hand, think about your right hand…”

Bee once did this for him, ran him through his body, taught him to feel and assess his hurts, his aches and pains, both mental and physical. She led him from his fingertips to his toes, circling round so he could work on figuring out why he reacted to each part of himself and how to stop loathing every part of him that had been touched by angry and possessive hands. When he asked her to help him understand how he died, she’d led him even further down, to the moment where his veins burned with ice and his pulse jittered into obsolescence. Andrew shook his head, he wasn’t going there now.

“I’m missing my fingers. They’re gone,” Neil was saying. “Not all the way, not all of them. I think Lola took them. A knuckle for every year I was gone. Another for the years my mother was dead. She made me swallow one of them. My left hand is sort of okay? Only the index is gone. That was for stealing. Old gang thing. Meant to be for card dealers but I never liked card games. My hands used to hurt. They’re kind of swollen though, I can’t feel them anymore. There’s definitely infection. I think it started in my wrists. They’re raw, I remember pulling against the cuffs, the skin came away.”

Neil lifted his hands up, all ten fingers were intact but thin white scar lines shone like spider webs in the light from the windows. He shook down his sleeves, assessing the wide, ragged bands around his wrists. “I really look like a patchwork man now.”

“You mentioned Lola. Who is Lola?” Andrew nudged Neil away from the horrors inflicted on his hands.

“A massive bitch. She’s one of my father’s inner circle. Never met a man she didn’t want to skin alive. She shot me once. That was when I knew my life was going to end at the end of a gun or a knife, you know. I was never going to grow old.”

“How old are you?” The question popped out before Andrew thought about it.

“Twenty-one ish? How about you?”

“Older than you. What else do you remember, Abram? About Lola and your death? Was she alone?”

 Neil rolled his head from side to side, no. “Of course not. My father was there. DeMaccio too, his red right hand. Romero was there to cut away my clothes but he didn’t do much else. He wanted to humiliate me. Pissed on me.”

It took Andrew a moment to dowse the white hot fury scalding through his body as he listened. Hated the glazed puzzlement on Neil’s face, as if he couldn’t understand why these people had hurt him like this.

He calmed just enough to ask his next question. “What did they say to you? Do you remember anything about what they said?”

 “Lots of things. Oh god.” Neil’s body stiffened and Andrew knew he didn’t want to hear what came next. “Don’t make me say them, _please_." 

Andrew hated that word but for once said nothing because he hated the situation more. He clamped his hand over Neil’s mouth to stop any of the truth spilling out. He needed to be more specific. “Did any of them tell you why you had to die? Did they say anything about what it would mean?”

Blue eyes squeezed shut and Andrew knew, if he checked, Neil’s pulse would be that of a rabbit – a fluttering, fitful, half fear, half will-to-live. A second longer and he released the hand on Neil’s mouth.

 “They told me horrible horrible things. My mom… They had this machine for skin grafts – used it to pull away the skin on my thighs – and they kept telling me things they were going to do to my legs… they cut my achilles… they kept calling me things, kept calling me… no, no, stop me, I don’t want to say this. I don’t want this.”

Crossing the small gap between them, Andrew brought his left hand to the back of Neil’s neck, his right to his mouth once more. “ _Abram_ , focus. Focus on anything to do with why they wanted you dead. I don’t care about the threats or the names. Did they mention the hollow men? Did they mention the Moriyamas?”

A few seconds passed until Neil calmed and quieted, through the moisture gathering on his lower lids made his blown eyes look huge and vulnerable. “They mentioned Kengo retiring. His son Ichiro is taking over. Apparently, that was why they needed me now. To cement my father’s place. I guess my father works for them, but my mom never mentioned that the Butcher had a boss. She just ran with me and told me to keep running. Never stop. Never stay. Never trust. But… I can hear Lola talking to Romero. They were talking about having kids, I don’t… why would they talk about family in a place like that?”

Andrew wasn’t sure but it seemed strange. “Tell me exactly what they said.”

“Lola said she hadn’t had this much fun in a while, that she couldn’t wait to do it with their own kid. Romero… he patted her stomach – _oh fucking no, they’re siblings_ – and they were talking about… living forever…” Neil frowned. “Immortality?”

And didn’t that put a whole new spin on Riko’s position in the underworld. Andrew knew that the Ravens made it their mission to hunt down souls, feed them to the night-ghast. He’d never fully understood why but the puzzle pieces were falling together, adding up to a picture he wished made less sense.

“I want to you to think very hard about this one, was anything else mentioned regarding the Moriyamas and immortality?”

“I think… I think there was a time when my father thought I was unconscious. I was so cold. I was wet. They’d used a towel, poured water over my mouth and nose. I don’t know how long it lasted but my father was there, laughing. He was talking to them – the three of them – about ascending. He’d be rising up the ranks soon, now that he had the Moriyama’s secret. I would become a Hollow, I didn't understand that. He would ascend and he would take them all with him in due time. All they had to do was make me beg for death.” Neil frowned. “I never begged for that. I don’t understand suicide.”

“Good for you,” Andrew muttered. His knees were sore from kneeling next to the sofa, holding Neil steady as he trembled through his truths.

“Staying alive, that’s all I lived for, to keep my promises to mom.” Neil sighed and tipped his head in Andrew’s hands, face so close he could feel the puff of his next words on his cheek. “But I figured something out after that. If I bent, something was going to happen, something that would send me elsewhere but wouldn’t kill me. That was what they were saying. They’d hang my body between life and death and use me to live forever. It sounded ridiculous. I decided to give it a chance. I thought… I figured maybe if I pretended then I’d be able to exploit them back, create an opening, escape.”

 _On your crippled legs, with your stumps for hands, your body holding onto the final scraps of life, you still wanted to fight_. Andrew watched Neil carefully. He understood now, more than he wanted to.

“Do you mean any harm to Kevin Day or the Foxes? Do you have any intention to join Riko Moriyama?”

Neil’s face creased with incredulity. His answer was fierce. “ _No_.”

That was it then. Neil remembered his death. Neil knew why he was in limbo. Neil wasn’t there to harm them, to infiltrate or undermine them.

He was just doing what he did best: surviving his father.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you decided to skip the more graphic parts of this chapter, in summary: 
> 
> Neil agrees to let Andrew dose him with Betsy's tea, this works like a truth serum as well as a means of helping him remember what happened before he died. Andrew promises that if Neil goes through with this, no matter what, he will protect Neil and help him crossover. 
> 
> During the truth telling scene, Andrew asks Neil a series of questions which cause him to relive part of the torture he underwent at his father's hand. He also remembers his father gloating about having the Moriyama's secret to immortality - all they need is for Neil to beg for death and they can force him into limbo to a) become a Raven and b) ensure that the Butcher lives forever. 
> 
> Andrew also frequently finds himself frustrated with how pretty Neil is and hates himself for it. 
> 
> Any questions, you can leave me an email and I'll gladly help!
> 
> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	6. (famous last) words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew lit two more cigarettes and passed one to Neil, who cupped it close to his face. He said nothing, leaving the silence as an invitation for Neil’s question. 
> 
> “How did you die?” It probably went against some kind of ghost etiquette to ask but Neil had been taught from a young age to fuck politeness. 
> 
> Andrew sucked in smoke, the tip burning orange, exhaled back to embers. “Who says I ever lived?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the fifth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper.
> 
> TW: some mentions of character deaths (even though they're all dead) BUT you do get to meet most of the other Foxes too! Say hello, Matt and Dan stans. Plus Neil loses his temper and you find out a little more about Ferryman!Andrew. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter five: (famous last) words**

 

_"All those eyes intent on me. Devouring me. What? Only two of you? I thought there were more; many more. So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is other people!” - Jean Paul Sartre_

 

***

Neil felt groggy and untethered for the rest of the morning.

Every so often, Andrew asked him a question – little things like his favourite colour, _grey_ , and what kind of cereal he preferred, _granola_ – to test how the effects of the tea were wearing off. He remained at Neil’s side for most of it, occasionally fetching water or offering snacks that Neil invariably declined. He sat on the floor by the sofa, his face in stony profile and Neil found himself committing to memory the strong jaw, the straight nose, the thin lips, the glimpse of chain at the nape of his neck. Andrew reminded him of Europe and the classical statues he saw with his mother in the Louvre – cold and strong and stoic. And those eyes too, less like bullet casings now and more like the sun setting between autumn leaves.

“Staring,” Andrew said, pushing at Neil’s cheek with two fingers to turn his head away. All of his touches were like that, minimal and forceful as if he was loath to make proper contact with Neil.

Neil shrugged, blinking at the ceiling once again. Lethargy dragged at his body but his mind was beginning to whirl again. _Did I seriously tell him he smelt good_? He wondered and his eyes flickered sideways to sneak another glance at his ferryman. _He must think I’m so fucking weird_.

It was easier to focus on the stupid, foolish, dumbass nonsense he’d let slip than it was to dwell on the new memories of his time in the Butcher’s basement. He didn’t want to think about the knives pushing through the backs of his ankle and ripping through the tendons. He didn’t want to remember choking on his own fingers as Lola clamped a hand over his mouth and laughed when he cried. He shivered. Much simpler to linger on how bloody embarrassing it was to tell the truth and nothing but the truth with absolutely no filter. Telling a possibly immortal being that he smelled _kind of like the ocean_ was definitely up there in most humiliating moments of Neil’s life. Or death. Or whatever he was. Not alive. Not dead. Not a zombie.

“Is something wrong?”

Neil let his head roll back to face Andrew at his latest question. “What?”

“You just groaned.”

 _Correction: this was the most humiliating moment of his non-death for sure._ Neil was fairly sure his ears must be pink. “I’m fine.”

Andrew’s eyes flicked heavenward. “If you’re able to lie again,” he said. “There are things I need to prepare. I’ll send Boyd or one of the others to keep an eye on you.”

Panic flittered through Neil. It was only a faint buzz through his nerves, but Andrew must have noticed something because he moved to face Neil.

“Would you prefer Abby or Wymack?”

Neil could barely stand feeling vulnerable in front of Andrew, let alone someone so much bigger like Wymack. He didn’t know how the idea of Abby being _something else_ settled with him either. If he understood more about this strange new underworld maybe it would be different but for now he shook his head, negative.

“I won’t inflict Nicky or Kevin on you like this. Boyd is tolerable. So is Dan.” From the look on Andrew’s face, Neil guessed this was the closest he came to giving a compliment.

Neil managed a rough, “Sure.” More fresh water was pressed into his hands before Andrew disappeared from view.

The apartment – for lack of a better word – immediately felt overwhelmingly empty, Neil terrifyingly small and alone. Memories crawled around in his head, sounds and images, insults and torments.

 _Start counting_ , hissed Mother Mary, _you don’t have time to lose grip like this._

But he did have time. _Isn’t that the point, mom?_

Whatever his father had done, he’d sent Neil to the underworld, to the waste land, and he was as good as buried. Except in this half-death, Neil was supposed to somehow empower his father forever, turn him into immortal nightmare fuel. Heat prickled in Neil’s eyes. He bared his teeth in a horrible grin. He would not cry. He would not let this new knowledge ruin him. Andrew had promised he’d help Neil cross over. He could cling to that. He had to cling to that.

Still, in his head his mother sneered at him. Her frostbite fury eating into him for being caught. For failing her. For trusting Andrew with his afterlife. _How does the target on your back feel, Abram?_

“Familiar,” he murmured. Blinked at the ceiling. Thought about the way the light tangled in Andrew’s hair.

It could have been minutes or hours before a tall, dark skinned stranger popped his head through the door with a wide grin on his face. “Matt Boyd,” he introduced himself with a voice as rich and smooth as homemade caramel. “You must be Neil.”

Offering a thin smile, Neil lifted one hand in greeting. He couldn’t make any more words come out of his mouth. He was so very tired.

It didn’t deter Boyd. He seemed entirely used to the situation, cotton-wool concern in his expression and gestures. “The monster said you’d been exposed to some alaethian herbs so I’m going to try and avoid asking you any direct questions. I’ll put on some coffee.”

 _Exposed to alaethian herbs_. _That was one way to put it._ Neil appreciated the effort though; he knew he was over the worst of the truth symptoms or Andrew wouldn’t have left him, still he felt too exhausted to answer anything else today.

“I guess you'll start for the Other Side tomorrow, too late to go today. The night-ghast would have a feast if you got caught outside. You should come to dinner with us all, Erik’s meant to be back this evening and you can meet everyone. Allison will be out, but we like to get the gang together when there’s most of us here at the same time. Even the monster attends…” Matt rambled as he moved through Andrew’s kitchen. He didn’t know where anything was kept, opening cupboards and frowning only to shake his head and try the next one.  It made Neil wonder how often Andrew had guests over, or if he hated people being in his space. The thought discomforted him, made him feel like an intruder.

Still, Boyd didn’t seem too worried. He puttered and chattered, everything about him kindly, never asking but suggesting things that Neil occasionally mustered the energy to nod to or shake his head. The coffee he made wasn’t as strong as Neil preferred but he’d added a spoonful of chocolate powder that was rich and dark and surprisingly not abhorrent. 

“Always has the best sweets,” Matt said, smile turning rueful. “I don’t know how he finds it out here. Swear he must have a bargain with Wymack so he gets to guide more chocolatiers and _pâtissiers_ than the rest of us or something, anything else just doesn’t make sense, you know?”

Neil’s flat look must have given away more than he intended. Matt chuckled. “Okay, point taken, you wouldn’t know. But things work strangely here and Andrew keeping you around when last night all bets were on how long it would take for him to kill you, that’s definitely weird – Oh hey, no that’s just an expression. Don’t look so worried – wait, you were – fuck you, man, I thought you were actually worried.”

Matt started to laugh the same time as Neil managed to smile. He’d enjoyed tricking Matt into thinking he was actually scared of Minyard. But the idea of fearing any of the Foxes at this point felt ridiculous. What could they do to him that his father or Lola hadn’t already? He snorted and resumed staring at the ceiling, listening to Boyd ramble about the team – apparently a mismatched bunch of fractured isolationists – yet somehow they’d all been recruited by Wymack and each had reasons for staying on as ferrymen rather than crossing over.

“Dan and I have a kid in the real world,” Boyd explained. “She’s a dream, a brilliant exy player, smart as all hell, kind as her mother and just as determined. But her little boy, our grandson Charlie, he has leukaemia so we’re helping out here, working with Wymack, at least until he passes on.”

Neil looked at Matt and frowned. He didn’t look old enough to have a child, let alone a grandchild.

“The age question?” Matt didn’t seem offended. “We were in our eighties, forty-three years of being married and we died two weeks apart, must have been hell on Amelia but after Dan went, I couldn’t hang on. And when I woke up here, Dan at my side again, we were the age when we met. Gosh, she looked so beautiful. Then again, she always has to me.”

The sentiment was saccharine enough for Neil’s teeth to hurt. Idly, he recalled Andrew saying he was older than Neil. At the time, he figured it was a couple years maybe at most but… he asked, “How long have you been here?” His voice was barely a thread of whisper.

“Around a year and three months, Charlie’s a fighter. But we all know the risks. Souls aren’t meant to stay in the waste land too long, after a while you’d forget what it’s like to be human. So, we’ll wait for our Charlie, even if we know we can’t stay for Amelia and know that she’ll have Wymack and whoever he recruits. He picks good people, good hearts.” Matt’s expression turned sheepish. “At least most Foxes are alright in the end.”

That wasn’t exactly what Neil gathered from the way Matt spoke about the team previously – it sounded a lot like Foxes all had deeply seated issues from addiction to abandonment– but the fact they were all here, protecting souls from destruction or whatever horrors  the night-ghast inflicted, he supposed they couldn’t be all bad.

“So you were all human once?”

“Not all of us,” Matt shook his head. “But most of us, yes.”

Neil was tempted to ask about Andrew, but figured that it was a question he should ask directly rather than via Boyd.

“You know, if you’re not comfortable with Andrew… if he did anything to you that you want to tell me about, I’m sure I can get Wymack to let me take you across to the Rift.”

Matt’s not-quite-a-question jerked Neil back into the room, rather unpleasantly too. “What?”

“Well we all know what Andrew’s like and he’s been a Fox for years, Nicky and Erik don’t really talk about it but…”

“Gossiping, Boyd? I chose you over my own cousin for this.”

As the door clicked shut, Matt looked sheepish. “Sorry, man, just wanted to make sure Neil here knew he had options if you two weren’t getting along.”

“Oh, we’re getting along just fine. Absolutely swell.” Andrew stepped into view, somehow looking deadly even against Matt’s extra foot of height. “Run along. We’ll see you at Abby's for dinner.”

He shucked his jacket and stalked into the kitchen to grab some dark red juice before rounding on Neil. Matt gave a little laugh and ruffled Neil’s hair as he passed. It wasn’t awful. “Typical. Alright monster, I’ll tell the others you’ll both be down later. Good to meet you, Neil.”

“You too,” Neil said. It was almost true. He’d never been so relieved to tell a white lie, then again Andrew’s quirked eyebrow suggested he maybe hadn’t got away with it after all. Still, trying was what counted, right? “So what’s this about dinner?”

Andrew’s expression grew wolfish. “Oh, you know, a little family gathering that you’re invited to. Part of our deal, I’m afraid. You can’t back out.”

Dread pooled in Neil’s stomach. It couldn’t be worse that the Wesninski family dinners, right?

The glimmer flashing in Andrew’s eye suggested, yes, perhaps it could.

***

Andrew thrust a change of clothes into Neil’s arms around thirty minutes before the dinner. It was enough time for Neil to change and to realise how deeply uncomfortable he was wearing Andrew’s form-fitting black jeans (slightly short in the leg) and thin, grey-cotton t-shirt. Not only was he chilly but he felt exposed, like he was all-limbs and easy prey. Andrew only nodded when he saw Neil, eyes looking momentarily darker before he threw a much larger, cable-knit jumper at him.

“Keep that for tomorrow as well,” he said, then, giving Neil an appraising up-down. “You’ll do.”

“Glad I meet your expectations.”

“Wouldn’t go that far,” Andrew said.

Neil huffed. As if he needed to feel any more awkward than he already did.  

They trudged back down to Abby’s and Neil tried to be friendly as everyone surged forward at their arrival; Matt introduced Dan, their smiles basically matched, and then Kevin was there shaking his hand under Wymack’s careful eye, and a woman called Betsy was telling him if he ever needed to talk then she was there to listen. It was more than a little overwhelming.

Nicky was the one who broke the litany of introductions. “Neil!” He cried out, enthusiasm like a flare over the sea at night. “You beautiful little bumpkin, how are you doing? This is Erik, the hunk of my life. I mean _L. O. V. E_. of my life, of course. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You make me feel so old.”

Erik, it turned out was a six foot plus slab of aryan good looks. Blond, built, and blue-eyed, he indulged Nicky’s shameless flirting and even seemed to find humour in the way his husband petted Neil’s chest. Neil took a half step back but couldn't move far. Nicky's mouth stretched wide, full of teeth.

“This jumper is so soft, and you look simply delicious in it, my dove. You know, if I wasn’t with Erik… actually, hun, would you want a piece of him too? Look at those legs.”

“Uhhhh.” This was not comfortable. He appreciated Nicky's attempt to include him but had he never heard of personal space?

Fortunately, both Erik and Andrew took action at the same time, Erik saying something in German that Neil could have translated but really didn’t want to, whilst Andrew steered him away with a grimace but no apology. That was okay though, Neil always thought it was strange how people tried to make nice for each other.

Moving to the other side of the room, he ended up talking to a girl with rainbow tipped hair called Renee about how he would have survived as zombie apocalypse. Listening to her talk about how she would go back for people was actually fun, though he wondered how she spoke so freely but carried so many shadows in her eyes. She reminded him of his mother and Lola put together: hard edges hidden between pretty smiles.

Dan Wilds was also a revelation, Matt introduced her with such adoration in his voice that it was impossible not to smile and fall into conversation with them. Bold and perceptive, she steered their discussion the way a captain navigated a ship, seeing round the corners of each subject and figuring out when to make a turn into something new. Neil immediately liked her. Renee gave him a knowing look as he responded to their tales with stories of his own, like his mom teaching him to drive when he was eleven, spending time in France as a young teen, teaching himself foreign languages for fun, how he was kind of annoyed he never finished his sudoku book.

“We all have things like that,” Dan said. “The things we wish we’d finished. I was midway through teaching my grandson all the rules of exy.”

“I’m sure Amelia will finish teaching that one for you,” said Matt, stroking her arm and she leant into him with a smile.

“I know she will. I checked in on them a couple weeks ago, she has all our old playbooks.”

Matt’s laugh was a bass drum. “And I bet she understands about half of them. Your handwriting is atrocious.”

They all laughed along, but Neil’s curiosity was peaked. “What do you mean checked in on them?”

“It’s one of the perks of being a ferryman, actually,” said Renee. “We can take on a fox shape to visit the living.”

“Apparently it all stems from some old trickster god which means foxes can move between life and death,” Dan explained.

Neil nodded, pieces falling into place. “So that’s how Wymack turned into a fox?”

“Almost,” said Dan. “Coach is a little different, given he’s not actually mortal. But yeah, that’s how we got the name Foxes.”

Matt looked fondly at his wife. “Only issue is you don’t have entirely human thought processes when you're up there. It’s kinda weird, personally, I don’t like doing it much. Think Nicky checks on Aaron fairly regularly though. And obviously we check on the kids.”

Their conversation ambled on, Neil wondering briefly if he could have transformed to see what his father was up to or, he winced, what had happened to his body. 

Andrew sauntered between the crowd, checking in on Neil occasionally, clearly up to something. He spent a significant time with Kevin and then Wymack, but Neil was most interested in how Andrew maintained careful distance between himself and everyone else. Maybe he also learnt the hard way how to judge a person’s reach just by looking at them. Maybe he just respected the Foxes more than he respected Neil. Wasn’t like Andrew kept politely out of his personal bubble with all the times he’d grabbed and poked him lately.

Finally, Abby bustled out of the kitchen, calling for them all to sit down at the table and behave.

Neil was surprised when everyone did.

Andrew caught his sleeve and guided him to the end of the table, between himself and Renee, opposite Kevin. Nicky, fortunately, was down the other end with Erik and Wymack. Matt and Dan made up the middle, their affection for everyone around them infectious. For the first time in a long time, Neil felt like maybe he could relax.

The good vibe was short-lived.

If Neil imagined feeling comfortable, it soon fell prey to the annoyance rising in his chest once sat at the table, irritation buzzing like a mosquito on an otherwise silent night.

Kevin was the problem – overly twitchy, overly skittish, looking at Neil like he might draw a cleaver from behind him at any moment and hack them all to teeny tiny pieces.

 _Drunk_ , Neil figured when Kevin missed his mouth with a piece of lettuce three times in a row _. And apparently terrified of little old me._

Neil tried to be polite and offered Kevin the food that came down their end of the table - the breads, the salt, Neil’s portion of sweet potato mash – but every time Neil so much as breathed in his direction, the other man flinched and dropped his eyes, reaching instead for a glass that smelt strongly of rubbing alcohol.

In theory, his behaviour was funny. But in reality, it was plain irksome.

As far as Neil observed, Kevin was _lucky_. Other than a beating heart, he had everything Neil ever wanted, right here, in Fox Tower: home, family, security, Andrew. Sure, like Neil, something linked him to this Riko guy, but right now he was free and surrounded by friends and had a defender at his back, telling him everything would be okay, willing to go to any length to protect him.

 _I’m jealous_ , Neil realised, _I’m jealous of an undead alcoholic. I am officially ridiculous._

Scowling, Neil stabbed at a carrot and risked a glance at Andrew, he was eating with as much enthusiasm as he showed everything else, not paying attention to Neil or Kevin at all. 

“Alright there?” Matt leant over Renee, concern pressing crows feet into the corners of his eyes.

Renee laughed and pushed Matt back into his chair. "He can hear you from one place over," she said. Her mouth was a sweet curl and there was no malice in her eyes. 

“I’m fine,” said Neil, trying on his best smile, reaching for the warmth he'd felt only minutes earlier.

He ignored Andrew’s derisive snort and was about to ask Matt some more about how being Ferryman worked when Kevin’s glass thunked heavily onto the table, making loose cutlery clink and Renee's smile to droop infinitesimally.

“You are not fine,” Kevin said, more like announced. “You’re not dead. I doubt you can even crossover. You’re too alive for that. All you can do is jeopardise all of us.” He laughed, a broken, brittle noise that hurt to listen to. The table stilled, the occupants’ expressions paused between disbelief and anger and confusion.

"Hey, no need for that," Matt immediately rose to Neil's defence. "Neil don't listen to him." 

Kevin's fists clenched on the table. "You're all being fools. You know what Riko's capable of or have you all so easily forgotten Seth?" 

"Don't invoke his name like that," Renee said, soft and deadly. "Seth was an entirely different situation and nothing to do with Riko's death-cult. He died because he took risks all us know better than to take, not because of the Moriyamas." 

Kevin sneered and was about to say something else when Wymack stopped him.

“We already had this conversation. And there's no reason to believe he shouldn’t be able to pass on.” 

“He’s a hollow man, none of them have ever—”

“No hollow man has ever had a chance to pass on. Because of Riko. You know this.”

Matt propped himself over the table again, whispering to Neil conspiratorially. “You understanding any of this?”

Neil shook his head. “Not a clue.”

“Liar,” Kevin focused in on Neil. “You were made for a reason and you know it. You might have this lot fooled, even Andrew, but I see through you.”

Flashes of memory catherine-wheeled through Neil’s mind, bright blades and dark words, his father’s laughter and Lola’s cloying promises – _shink-and-snick, the pip-and-pop of bubbling skin, pain, pain, pain –_ the moment-by-moment horrors he’d relived under Andrew’s careful guidance only hours before. It was too much for Neil and he placed down his fork before he stabbed it into Kevin’s face as he continued to spew accusations. He settled for staring Kevin down, waiting for the tirade to be over. Or an opening.

Dan lurched upwards but Matt tugged her back down, Nicky tried to pass water up the table but no one took the jug from him, Renee mouthed at Neil, “He’s drunk.” As if Neil couldn't tell. As if it even made a difference. 

On Neil's other side, Andrew had gone eerily still, his attention entirely on Kevin. Kevin and Andrew had a deal, Neil gathered that much, and he knew that for Andrew those promises ran deep.

“Riko is going to kill all of us trying to get to you. He’ll kill Andrew. He’ll kill me.” Kevin launched into a fresh litany and Neil picked up his fork again.

Every word showed Kevin's lack of faith in the people around him, in Andrew and his vows. Anger twisted in Neil's stomach. He had barely spoken to Kevin, though he’d met plenty of people like him in the past and easily recognised the way he spoke, the mannerisms, the fever-flush of his words tonight versus the measured calm of the night before. His mother would have recognised a type like Kevin too. 

 _He’s scapegoating you_ , he could almost hear her cooing. _Everything he’s saying, he believes about himself. He’s a coward and he’s terrified._

And Neil knew just enough from their previous interactions and the small mentions from the others to push some buttons.

“Do you actually care about the Foxes or do you only care about yourself?” Neil asked. The table took on a fresh, terrible hush. “Seriously? Am I _jeopardising the Foxes_ or are you really just worried about protecting your own skin? Oh wait, you let Andrew handle that for you, right? He’s your knife-happy guardian angel. Now, I don’t know what you’re on about – I’ve never known my place and am not about to start now – but maybe you should look at yourself before you point fingers at me. I, at least, would say no to this Riko guy. Can you say the same? Or do you need someone else to do it for you?”

Kevin's face contorted in fury. “You’d try, no one refuses him for long. What makes you special?" 

“What makes _you?”_ Neil snapped back, kissing civility goodbye. “Let me tell you why I think you’re so upset about me being here. You’re weak and you’re scared of that weakness. You see me and you see yourself; you see every bad thing that you’re capable of, every risk that you pose to these people. Have you even told them the whole story? I don't know the half of what you're talking about and I doubt your team here do either. I’m _nothing_ , Kevin. I’m _no one_. Everything you’re trying to turn me into is your drunk-ass brain projecting your insecurities. That’s _nothing to do with me."_

As soon as he stopped for breath, he knew he’d said too much, that he’d twisted the knife too deeply. Kevin was gaping, turning puce like he’d forgotten how to breathe, and Andrew, beside him, wore a smile that could have frozen hell.

“I’m done. Thanks, Abby. Was delicious,” Neil said, pushing back his plate. “Think I’m going to head to bed. Long day. Nice to meet you all.”

Rising on unsteady legs, he was aware of all the eyes following him, some softer and apologetic or concerned – all looked stunned.

He was out of the door and into the hall before he realised Andrew was at his back. Neil stiffened, expecting retaliation for his verbal attack on Kevin. But when he met Andrew’s eyes, whatever darkness had been there before had sunk back below the surface and left nothing but a cattish satisfaction in its wake.

They didn’t make it far before heavier footsteps gave Wymack’s presence away.

 “One second – Andrew you wait – I want a word with Neil.”

Andrew gave one of his funny two fingered salutes and vanished ahead.  

Wymack crossed his arms, looking Neil over as if appraising whether he could play a sport after yesterday’s injuries. “I'm sorry about that," he started but Neil didn't want to hear it. 

"Don't. Don't apologise for him." 

"He's my son," Wymack said, with a shrug. "But... you're not surprised." 

"You have the same tone of voice," Neil explained. There wasn't much of Wymack in Kevin, where one was dark the other was light, one broad, the other lean. But their height and the way they spoke, that matched in a way that only genetics explained. 

"Look, I just wanted to lay it out in the open because you have some choices here in the waste land and no matter what Kevin implied, I'd make the same offer to anyone who passes through here. If you want more time before you cross over, or need a refuge, let me know. We’d be happy to sign you as a Fox.”

Swallowing, Neil let himself nod. He was still too angry and too flustered. But he was learning that Wymack meant well. “I’ll think about it.”

Wymack gave a roguish grin, it barely seemed forced despite Neil’s abhorrent table manners. “That’s all I ask.”

Neil didn't watch Wymack return to Abby's. Hurrying towards the staircase, he acknowledged Andrew waiting there with a raise of his chin. They climbed as if they’d done it a hundred times and Neil hated how at ease he’d felt before Kevin opened his big mouth. He hadn’t even noticed he was doing it: slowing down, opening up. It was absurd. He couldn’t risk such a lazy attitude, not now. Being dead meant shit if he was destined to join Riko. He was ruined. Worse than damaged goods. He was cursed.

What even stood between him and either his own annihilation or his father’s immortality? Nothing, it seemed, but Andrew. And how could he rely on someone like that when they had loyalties to someone like Kevin? Someone who clearly wanted Neil thrown out and forgotten.

Throwing open the door to Andrew’s apartment, Neil instantly began to pace. He wanted to run, knew if he did he'd never stop. Kevin might be the Foxes’ equivalent of Cassandra, but Neil learnt never to ignore a warning when he heard one.

Could his existence really put every single ferryman at risk?

Could Andrew helping him to the Other Side really get him killed?

Walking around Neil, Andrew opened the doors to the terrace and lit up. Neil followed the wafting smoke. His hands curled over the side of the balcony and he tipped his head to look over the edge. _Not far enough to kill you_ , he realised and then he caught the direction of his thoughts. _Don’t be stupid, why would you do all this to thwart your dad, just to destroy the last of your own soul?_ He was being ridiculous. Andrew had made him a promise…

“Are you done with your histrionics, yet?” Andrew blew a smoke circle into the night, watching it float until it hit a breeze and fell apart.

Neil reached out without thinking, taking Andrew’s cigarette away and taking a slow inhale. His lungs protested, filling with the old prickle and burn. Memories of his mother’s burning corpse on the beach crackled in his head. Andrew, for some reason, let him hold onto it.

“I don’t want to gamble with anyone’s life. Mine has always been forfeit, no one else’s has to be.”

“Good thing you’re not the one making bets tonight then.” Andrew did not sound impressed. “But don’t worry your pretty head, I say the odds are good and Kevin’s being a melodramatic chicken. Even if Riko wants you that bad, he can’t afford to take on the Foxes. We’re ferrymen – attacking us would attract a hell of a lot more attention than he can take. And I literally mean a hell of a lot.”

Neil hummed non-committedly.

Andrew hooked his fingers in the collar of Neil’s t-shirt and tugged just enough for Neil to feel it. “I know what I’m doing. I knew what I was agreeing to when I became a Fox, when I offered to protect Kevin, and when I made our deal too. I know how much it will cost me, how far I’ll have to go. You’re not joining the court. You’re crossing over.”

Andrew didn’t let go until Neil nodded, and then he reached for Neil’s hand. He took his cigarette back, put it between his lips and pressed a warm, circular _something_ into Neil’s empty palm. Neil lifted his hand to look at it. It was a pendant, bronze in colour, with two foxes chasing each other’s tails embossed into the metal; a thin chain curled around it, long enough so Neil could conceal it under his clothes. He frowned, he’d seen a similar chain around Andrew’s neck, and now he thought of it, Boyd’s too.

“It works three ways. The first as a key. Grants access to any of our foxholes. If we’re separated, you’ll still be able to get into the safehouses,” Andrew explained. “Second, no matter where you are, hold that and focus on me or any of the other Foxes, we’ll know where you are and come for you.”

“And the last thing?”

“Protection. It provides some resistance to the night-ghast, stops you from broadcasting your location to them too. It marks you as one of us.”

Neil blinked. “What? As a fox?” 

“No, as a rabbit. What have I said about stupid questions?”

“But what does that even mean? Wymack said... I mean... I'm not a ferryman.”  _I only said I’d think about it._

“Did you agree to be a ferryman?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not a ferryman. You haven’t got a body anymore, all that holds you together in the waste land is sheer force of will – your choices are all that matters. If you don’t say yes, then you’re free.”

Neil’s hand clenched around the pendant. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s just a token, don’t read so much into it.” 

How could Andrew say that? He knew what Neil had gone through. Knew what gestures like this meant to people like him who’d barely known a kind hand or a good word. Andrew had no sympathy or comfort to offer, Neil knew that, but he was a steadying force in a world that no longer made any sense and that made it almost impossible for Neil to look away from him.

 _It’s unlikely you’ll even be able to crossover. You’re too alive for that. All you’re doing is jeopardising the Foxes._ Despite all of Andrew’s promises and confidence, Kevin’s warnings still niggled in the back of Neil’s mind.

He was probably not going to have an easy out of this limbo, but given his history of every possible bad thing always happening to him, what was new there? He snorted; self-pity never suited him.

He breathed in, Andrew’s cigarette was almost finished, burnt down to the filter and cinders grazing the tips of short, calloused fingers. The waste land might destroy him, but he would spend the last few days of consciousness as himself, as someone real, as an honorary Fox with Andrew at his side. He thought he was okay with that. It was the brightest his future had ever looked – and it sure as anything beat his last memories of dying, alone, broken, forgotten, in Baltimore.

“I’d like to ask my first question,” Neil said cautiously. “For our truth game.” 

Andrew lit two more cigarettes and passed one to Neil, who cupped it close to his face. He said nothing, leaving the silence as an invitation for Neil’s question.

“How did you die?” It probably went against some kind of ghost etiquette to ask but Neil had been taught from a young age to fuck politeness.

Andrew sucked in smoke, the tip burning orange, exhaled back to embers. “Who says I ever lived?”

“Didn’t you? Are you like Abby and Wymack then? These are all the same question by the way.”

“No one likes a cheat,” Andrew drawled. His shoulders bunched, the muscles in his arms tensing and relaxing intermittently, distractingly; Neil couldn’t help but look. “The official records say I killed myself. Oh-ver-dose.” He spat out the word, Neil's nails cut into his palms.

“And the unofficial records?”

“A judge forced me onto anti-psychotics as part of a reduced sentence. They fucked the dosage.” Andrew’s voice was salt-flats from a birds-eye view, barren and cracked and scorched by the heat. “Unlike you, I understand not wanting to live. But I didn’t choose to die.”

“You were murdered.” Neil’s blood crackled in his ears, furious and so sad. “How old were you?”

“Is that your second question?”

Neil stammered, trying his luck. “Still the same question.”

“I was a year older than you. A couple months shy of my sentence finishing.”

Andrew took a last long inhale on his cigarette, broke the ash off the tip and stubbed it into the windowsill. The embers vanished into dust. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels? LET ME KNOW.
> 
> You can also find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	7. (walk this world) alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Andrew thought of his death, it felt distant and strange. 
> 
> Most of that was due to the drugs pumping through his veins when it happened, quicksilver-cold and leaving him floating three inches outside of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the sixth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper.
> 
> TW: detail of character deaths (even though they're all dead). BUT you get some fluff too. If you don't want to know more about what happened to Andrew, skip the first few paragraphs.
> 
> Happy reading!

**chapter six : (walk this world) alone**

_“To die, to sleep -_

_To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,_

_For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”_

_― William Shakespeare, Hamlet_

***

When Andrew thought of his death, it felt distant and strange.

Most of that was due to the drugs pumping through his veins when it happened, quicksilver-cold and leaving him floating three inches outside of reality.

Every second on those meds had been a different kind of hell.

The first pills made him manic, flaying him open and exposing every raw nerve ending to the world. He felt like he was on fire most days, like his brain was firing a thousand times faster than it should, like fear was paranoia, and happiness was euphoria. He’d hated them.

Then after an incident on the court with an opposition player, the doctors shook things up. Made him feel nothing, pumped him full of blockers that left him unmoving and immovable. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t washed. And after he stopped turning up to classes or practice, his parole officer recommended he spend the last few weeks of his sentence under observation and in intensive therapy.

Andrew died ten days later; wretched, undernourished, new lines cut into his arms where a negligent nurse left their name badge behind. He couldn’t even feel pain.

For days, the doctors around him had ignored his worsening state, calling him a thug and violent, leaving him in the tender care of Dr Proust who enjoyed sending Andrew sky high for half a day then pumping him full of downers until he was almost catatonic.

In the end, Andrew stroked out. He didn’t remember that part. But Nicky told him about it later. How he and Aaron received the news in their house in Columbia. How Aaron’s fury nearly set the state on fire. Andrew didn’t say anything about his own relief, waking up in the waste land with Betsy at his side. Nor did he mention the endless rage – not at Proust – but at himself for letting go.

He’d never felt so selfish in his life.

And he’d barely felt anything since. A hint of anger here. Mild fascination there. Kevin promised to give him something to hang around for in the waste land but not even the secrets of life and death were that interesting. Most of them came down to fickle gods and doomed heteronormative romances. Dull.

Flicking ash over the balcony, Andrew turned from the night sky and went for the ice cream in the fridge. He took it to the sofa and flopped down, unwilling to look at Neil. He’d seen the anger, the shadows stirring in his eyes – Andrew snorted, like this hopeless, undead kid was going to avenge him somehow. No matter that it happened years ago, he didn’t need a defender, that time was long past. Long, long past. And he hadn’t needed anyone then, either.

Then again… he wrapped his mouth around a spoonful of marshmallow and chocolate ice cream and watched as Neil slid away from the balcony and came to hover by the end of the sofa. Good though he looked in Andrew’s clothes, he was still ragged around the edges, hair a touch too long, eyes a little too tired. Then look a little deeper – Andrew squinted at him – and Neil was ice all the way through. Beautiful, brutal, unforgiving.

 _Too damn sharp to be so pretty_ , he mused. And he’d be gone soon anyway. Andrew would take him to the other side and that would be the last he saw of Neil Abram Josten, nee Wesninski.

“Sit down,” Andrew said, deciding the best policy was to focus on the plan and not on all the reasons that Neil was becoming an open wound in his chest, at risk of infection. “You should know the plan for the journey.”

Haltingly, Neil joined Andrew on the sofa, seeming to measure the distance between them first like he recognised the need for boundaries, for space on Andrew’s terms.

The next hour was spent with Andrew explaining the route they needed to take to the Rift. He definitely did not pay attention to how the window draught made auburn curls fall across sharp cheekbones or how Neil smelled faintly of his own soap, clean and citrusy and _tempting_. Instead, he drew out the path – the winding road and the smattering of safehouses – pointed out the days where there was more or less risk thanks to the distance between foxholes. He drew a circle for the riverside town beside the rift, a place where souls lingered if they were worried about crossing over (especially those who thought they might be going to hell).

“Don’t linger outside. The night-ghast can’t enter the town walls, but the hollow men can. If you get separated from me, either make your way to Eden’s Twilight, here, or our base, here.”

He pointed out both locations and was about to explain the last part of the trip – the descent into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, just about the only thing anglicised religion had got correct about the underworld – when Neil paused him.

“I think it’s probably about time you told me a bit more about the night-ghast,” Neil said, calm and absent any trepidation. “You’ve all mentioned them. They sound like demons." 

“That’s not far off, although the agreed description is overstuffed ravens. They feed on trauma, nightmares. They try to snatch souls during the crossing. The closer we get to the other side, the worse the attacks will become.”

“What do they do?” Neil asked. “How do we fight them?”

“ _We_ don’t fight them. You keep that pendant on and you keep away from them.”

Neil’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me what they do.”

“If they catch you, which they won’t, then they pull you under. The ones they’ve caught, we never see again.”

A thoughtful look crossed Neil’s face. “And once you're under?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Andrew replied. “But their attacks aren’t all physical, they draw up your worst memories. And the closer we get to the Valley, the more real those memories seem.”

Humming, Neil traced over Andrew’s half-arsed map. “Show me where the Valley is?”

Andrew pointed. “Here.”

“And the Rift is?”

“The other side. There.” The distance from the town to the Rift wasn’t much, but it was the most treacherous part of the journey. It was where Seth lost his last passenger and eventually his own life too trying to save them.

“And let me guess, the Valley is where Riko keeps his court?”

“My dear rabbit, have you been hiding a couple brain cells in there all this time?” Andrew drawled.

“Yes or no would do, you know,” grumbled Neil.

“The valley is always dark, makes for prime hunting ground.” Andrew hated the pensive way Neil listened, the way he simply accepted that he would be chased through the waste land by monsters, that he thought this was normal. “I won’t lose you.”

“I know,” Neil said. He wasn’t lying.

And Andrew hated him even more for meeting his eyes. For regarding him _like that_ , like Neil would look past absolutely everything he had been through – his life on the run, his father’s bloody wrath, Andrew’s initial suspicion – and still _trust Andrew_.

Andrew offered no certainty. He was not a solution. He was nobody’s answer.

 _But you made him a promise and he’s trusting you to keep it, what’s so wrong with that?_ Bee’s voice buzzed in his head. He flicked the skin behind his ear to shut her up.

He knocked the map over to Neil and stretched out, not missing how Neil’s attention lingered over his arms and shoulders as he rolled them down his back. _Interesting_.

Frustration sent him searching for more ice cream. Because wasn’t the fact that Neil was so goddamn entertaining eighty-five per cent of the problem? If he wasn’t, Andrew could continue the way he always had: going through the motions, putting one step in front of the other, surviving on promises that let him keep the last of his humanity intact. He didn’t need distractions, didn’t need an instigator like Neil making life difficult.

 _But you’d totally blow him,_ said an older and nastier inner voice. _What was it Nicky said? Just look at those legs, AJ._

Andrew looked before he realised what he was doing. For someone nearly as short as he was, Neil’s legs were long and positively sinful in the bit-too-fitted jeans, which showed off svelte lines and runner’s calves. Gritting his teeth, Andrew took a deep breath through his nose and out again, he could not let thoughts like these creep in, not with the night-ghast so hungry. It would be bad enough with Neil’s death hanging over them so recently and so bloody, they didn’t need his own duffle full of traumas to come out of the woodwork as well.

“I hate you,” Andrew said casually. Neil was temporary. He wasn’t staying. Making sure Neil wasn’t devoured by vicious monsters, or succoured in by Riko Moriyama, or caused another scene with Kevin, was enough work without dealing with fifteen years of buried issues and sexual crises. Andrew might like risks but he didn’t care for the ones where people ended up dead and his promises broken.

“A lot of people hate me,” Neil said. “But you didn’t cut me off at the knees, just dosed me with tea and treated me to dinner, so I guess you’ve not hit Abject Loathing yet.”

“I save that for the really special ones.”

“Like Riko?”

Snorting, Andrew said, “He doesn’t deserve so much notice. The way to kill a creature like him is by refusing to give him what he wants: attention, admiration, acrimony. And with that much alliteration, the only solution can be ambivalence.”

Neil had the gall to laugh at that. “If he’s so much ego, there has to be a way to bring him down. A vulnerability.” 

Andrew had thought the same for years, though none of his attempts to undermine Riko had been successful in the long term. Weakened, yes, but crippled? No. The problem was his power over the Court and the night-ghast. As long as he had them, he could hold dominion over the Valley, could feed the souls of the dead to his relatives on the upside and ensure they lived forever.

_Just like he plans for Neil._

And that just wouldn’t do. Neil was all spite, he existed irregardless of every single thing the world threw at him. Running might be his first instinct but there was no doubt he also would fight for his own ground. If the show with Kevin was anything to go by, he wasn’t afraid to press where it hurt, and Andrew could not forgetting their initial meeting either, where the rabbit had tried to draw a knife on Wymack – as if he stood a chance against a god.

The idea of Neil becoming a hollow, giving up that fire… it was abhorrent. Andrew would never let it happen.

There was no way Neil was ever going to fall into Riko’s hands.

He would keep his promise.

When the time came, he would let Neil go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels? LET ME KNOW.
> 
> You can also find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
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	8. (temptation and) salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That was when he felt it. Something that was not a trick. Was not a lie. It began as a chill around his heart, like cold fingers stroking around the vena cava to his pulmonary vein. His breath froze mid-inhalation. He could see them. A thousand black-bodied chimera, twisted and feathered, a murder of monsters that pushed and pulled over each other so the sky undulated like snakes. And their beaks, opening wide and endless, snapping and snarling, bloody, tooth-filled maws."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the seventh chapter of (dont fear) the reaper.
> 
> I don't think there are any real TWs but you're about to meet Riko and he's canon-cruel, and there are also mentions of Proust (but nothing big). It's a DARK chapter though, so you're warned. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**chapter seven: (temptation and) salvation**

 

_If there are noises in the night_

_A frighting shadow, flickering light_

_Then I surrender unto sleep._

_-_ _Eric Whitacre, Sleep_

 

_***_

Before dawn, Andrew was nudging Neil awake and plying him with coffee. By the time the sun pushed itself up over the lip of the horizon, brushing aside the last vestiges of night, they were booted up and on the road. And then they walked.

And walked.

And walked.

The road was endless and flickered between recognisable vistas from the various interstates Neil had crossed in his lifetime, to a peculiarly blank and winding path with little to no distinctive features. It was cold, bitterly, numbingly so, and Neil was grateful for the thick jumper and additional coat that Andrew forced upon him. Oversized and worn, they were still snug and smelt lightly of sage and lemongrass.

They went miles over miles, hours passing, Neil occasionally commenting on something he recognised.

_That was where my mom pulled over to teach me stitches using old bits of orange peel. I met a trucker in there, he was trying on women’s shoes and threatened me with a stiletto. Oh god, that’s where my mom gave me grapes for a birthday treat but there were maggots in the fruit, I never ate grapes again._

Andrew, on the other hand, said very little. He smoked when they paused for breath but mostly he scanned to horizon, spoke only to tell Neil they needed to pick up the pace or reminding him to drink water.

Neil spent a lot of time trying to figure out what he wanted his next truth from Andrew to be. He didn’t know why he kept sharing truths of his own – even silly small ones – when Andrew wasn’t asking questions. Wasn’t even Andrew’s turn yet. But if he was being honest with himself, Neil felt weird about forcing Andrew to admit he’d been killed. It opened a whole new slew of questions that Neil wanted the answers for:  _why had he been forced on to medication? what happened to the doctors who messed up his dosage? had he left anyone behind? did Nicky fit into this somehow?_ He didn’t ask any of these things though, just rambled about the stories from his time on the road as the waste land shifted and turned around them. 

Or at least he did until a forest started looming up in front of them, towering California redwoods that Neil recognised but definitely had no stories for – he and his mom spent very little time in California compared to the other southern border states.

“We’re not going that way,” said Andrew, turning abruptly off the path.  

 _He wants to go off road?_  “What’s wrong with the path?”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to stay out of the forest?”

 “Sure, it was right up there with ‘trust no one’ and ‘don’t get shot’,” Neil replied. His mother’s life lessons were pretty bleak now he considered them.  

 “Yeah? How did that work out for you?” Andrew didn’t slow down. “That forest shouldn’t be there, it’s part of my manifestation not yours. We go this way. Pick the path up in the hills.”

 “Your manifestation?”

 “Stu-pid quest-ion,” Andrew said with sing-song mockery. “You know how the waste land works now. Figure it out.”

It didn’t take Neil long to understand what Andrew implied; he figured the forest was somewhere Andrew once visited in life and had no desire to return to in death. He glanced back at the trees, noted the way they seemed to leer at them as they started picking across the untravelled grassland. No good memories there, he guessed. Forests were creepy anyway.

Two hours later, Neil was wishing they’d just stuck with the creepy forest. Sweaty from climbing the hills-that-were-really-seriously-close-to-being-mountains, face frozen and red from the wind so high up, they still seemed to have little to no view of whatever path Andrew mentioned. The waste land had stopped shifting shape too. It was all crags and grey-purple heather broken up by yellow-flowering gorse. The wind tasted salty.

 A distraction was definitely necessary.

“So why did you become a Fox?” Neil asked, he figured it wasn't so complicated if Andrew was anything like Matt and Dan. Andrew kept walking. “That’s my second question, by the way.”

He thought he heard Andrew mutter something under his breath but didn’t catch the words.

“If you don’t want to answer, that’s ok,” said Neil. “The same rules apply so you can say no. I can ask something else.”

“Shut up,” said Andrew. Unlike Neil he didn’t sound like the cold had ripped his voice half away, his tone was deep and steady as ever. “You heard Nicky mention Aaron.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“He’s my twin. Identical.”

“Were – are you close?”

“I’m guessing you’re applying your multi-question rule again?”

“Well you did interrogate me using a truth potion.”

“Then no, we weren’t _close_. But we had a deal and he never believed I killed myself. After Proust sent me to my untimely and tragic end, he sued for medical malpractice and won.” Andrew could have been talking about the weather for all the emotion Neil detected in his tone. “He got a second life insurance payout that could have set him up for life. Instead he invested it into an exy programme for kids coming out of juvie, hired a decent coach, became a doctor and fostered a bunch of kids who’d been fucked by the system with his stupid wife, Katelyn.”

“He cared about you,” said Neil, softly.

“He felt guilty and wanted to appease his soul. Still, the deal is the deal. And here’s the path,” Andrew said. “We’ve lost time, but we should make it.”

Neil looked around them, noticed how low the sun now hung in the sky and the ink-black line of the horizon. He shivered, tracing the line of the new path all the way into the distance. They were so high up. It could be miles more before they reached anything.

Any further questions either of them might ask had to wait, the pace Andrew set back down the hill was relentless and the peak was covered in gravel that skidded out from their feet and rocks slicked with cloud-damp mizzle. Neil tried to pick his way carefully behind Andrew, shuffling a few steps at a time, testing the terrain as they went. But the day’s end drew upon them in a ridiculously short space of time and he could feel his ferryman’s impatience. Still, he dropped back slightly, walking closer to Neil’s side, one hand half extended and ready to grab him if he fell, which was some comfort.

 Sunset deepened into dusk and with it, Andrew’s tension only increased. And then came the howl.

 “Fuck.” Andrew stopped abruptly, his attention jerking towards the sound. He stood stock still, absolutely alert.

 “What is it?” Neil asked, squinting in the direction Andrew was looking, but could see nothing out of the ordinary through the gloom. He could barely make out the shape of mountains in the distance, the track they were descending. Everything was eerily still. Nothing like the real paths he’d hiked with his mom as they broke up their trail along the I-95 by cutting up into the North Carolina mountains, pausing in the small towns around Hickory and Boone, finding rest in Hart Square where they knew an old family that could put them up for a few nights under the radar and help treat their injuries. He shook his head free of old ghosts and was about to ask what Andrew had seen when a hand was held up in his face, motioning for quiet.

Neil closed his mouth and watched Andrew. He was still frozen, eyes searching the gloom. Neil glanced once more in the direction of Andrew’s gaze but still couldn’t see anything. His tension was infectious though, and he felt his spine tightening, his heart picking up in pace.

Andrew continued to stare keenly for another blink, two. Then he turned to Neil and for a second it was like his eyes were on fire, glowing too brightly to be human anymore. The wind picked up around them, noise a low snarl in Neil’s ears. Above it, he thought he heard a faint screeching. Inhuman and hungry.

“Night-ghast?” he mouthed, not sure if he should speak yet.

Andrew nodded. 

Neil could see nothing but Andrew’s rigid posture told him to be worried. He took a cautious step closer to Andrew, near enough for him to whisper and be heard. “What do we do?”

“There’s a safe house at the bottom of this hill. Nothing fancy but we need to reach it. We need to go faster, Neil.” Andrew’s words were quiet and fervent.

“Where are they?”

“Closer than we want them to be.”

“I can run.” 

“It’s rough terrain.” But Andrew gave him a once up and down. Neil shivered. “We can try a jog. Don’t break your stupid fucking neck.”

 Andrew once again set the pace, his feet sure the path and taking the lumps and bumps with practiced grace. Neil copied him, placing his steps as exactly as he could behind Andrew. The dark was thickening around them, obscuring even the hints of hills and trees. Gold eyes darted looks to make sure he was still following, and despite the horror of the moment, the dread pooling in his stomach, Neil felt reassured with Andrew so close.

Or he did until he missed a step. Gravel beneath Neil’s foot had him stumbling, yelping. He spun awkwardly, trying to find purchase with his other foot and failed. But Andrew was fast, grabbing his arm before he could fall. His glare spelled  _idiot_ , yet his hands were steadying and he flicked his eyes around the darkness before his hand hovered over Neil’s.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes?” Neil said, not really knowing what Andrew was asking.

 Andrew laced their fingers together, his grip tight. “They can’t take you unless you let go,” he said by way of explanation. “Almost there.”

Looking at their hands, Neil let himself be pulled, even faster now. He felt jittery, aware that this was a different kind of touch to any of the ones that Andrew gave previously. Making himself focus, he thought that maybe he could see the house – a white painted one-up-one-down that might have suited the suburbs but looked crooked and dilapidated here. 

The ground levelled out enough for them to start running. Neil could go faster but he kept pace with Andrew, their locked hands burning between them. 

 _Keep going_. It didn’t feel like they were gaining any ground but Andrew’s brutal grip told him this was just another trick of the waste land. The wailing, screeching orchestra swelled as the darkness thickened further. Neil couldn’t guess at how many there were coming for them, but he could hear their wings, the flap of feathers, the cacophonic symphony of their cries.

That was when he felt it. Something that was not a trick. Was not a lie. It began as a chill around his heart, like cold fingers stroking around the vena cava to his pulmonary vein. His breath froze mid-inhalation. He could see them. A thousand black-bodied chimera, twisted and feathered, a murder of monsters that pushed and pulled over each other so the sky undulated like snakes. And their beaks, opening wide and endless, snapping and snarling, bloody, tooth-filled maws.

 _These are nothing like ravens_ , Neil’s thoughts were panicked and ridiculous. What had he expected? Pretty little black corvids?

“Neil.” Andrew tugged at his hand. “ _Abram_. We can’t stop.”

Something rushed past him. Although he yanked his head back quickly enough to snap his jaw shut, the thing slashed across his face, causing a burning across the bridge of his nose and cheek. The heat could only be blood. He was bleeding.

“Shit,” Andrew growled. Neil heard the thud of Andrew’s fist hitting the next night-ghast to swoop at them, recognised the slick sound of a knife whistling through the air a second later.

The house was closer _. They were so close._

But Andrew couldn’t defend them both against so many of the night-ghast. Neil needed to fight as well, he tugged at their hands. 

“Neil, no! Don’t let go of me!” Andrew’s warning was too late.

Turning, Neil lashed out at the next monster only for the screaming shadow to pass right through him. It was like an icicle piercing his stomach, worse than even the bullet he’d taken in Oregon. He gasped, hands searching for the damage, for the blood. But there was nothing. Nothing except the sudden rush of talons all around him, clawed and biting, dragging him backwards, dragging him down, down. Instinctively, he flailed with his arms, trying to knock the night-ghast away but they seemed to have no more substance than air. For all they looked real, could hurt  _him_ , they were smoke and nightmares. Another passed through him, this time careening through his head and he screamed. Every memory of his death surged through him, as painful and vivid as it had been in the basement of his father’s house.

 “Neil!”

 Although he couldn’t be standing far away, Andrew’s voice sounded warped and distance. It barely registered over the jubilant snarl and snap around him. The night-ghast were everywhere and nowhere, swarming over him, tearing his arms and legs, across his stomach, scorching through his scars. Not even the adrenalin in his fear could dislodge their grip on him. 

“Andrew,” he cried. “Help.”

To his ears, the words held less power than a leaf on the wind. He felt weak all over, like he had lost too much blood. It was hard to resist the tugging claws. Down, down, down towards the ground and then impossibly beyond it.  _No_ , no he was not going into the grave here. 

“Neil,” Andrew’s voice could have been coming through a long dark tunnel. “Listen to me, Abram.”

He could hear Andrew’s panic and he wanted to reach out to comfort him. He was beginning to feel weightless and heavy. A hand seized the front of his jumper. It hurt. He moaned in pain as the hand began pulling him upwards against the talons digging into his skin. The air around him filled with furious hissing and squawks and Neil reached for the hand as if to dislodge it. But the fingers were warm and familiar, blunt nails leading to leather wristbands.  _Andrew_. He held tight, trying to ignore the agonising stretch and snap of his skin where claws wrenched and tore. He whimpered as tacky heat bloomed along his spine and another night-ghast vanished into his throat. They seemed to thrive on his hurts, devouring the noises he made with greedy delight.

Then he was in the night air again, Andrew’s face was a brief, bright thing in his vision before an arm snaked under his knees and lifted him into the air. His feet dangled, his head lolled. Andrew was carrying him, tucking him close so that the night-ghast couldn’t tear at Neil any more. They could tear at Andrew though. And they did, each swoop and snap leaving a lick of black bruising on fair skin, not that Andrew showed his pain. His attention was focused, mouth a grim line.

The maelstrom reached fever pitch as Andrew neared the house, clearly recognising that their prey was about to escape. Neil hid his face in Andrew’s shoulder as a lucky talon caught the flesh of his jaw.

 _Almost there_. Andrew’s feet thudded against the path, jostled Neil as they stormed the final few feet and burst through the front door and tumbled to the floor. Loosed from Andrew’s grip, he was the first to move, scrambling to shut the door. A thunderous chorus met his ears for a last time, causing as a thousand hurts and memories to sear through him once more. The door thudded shut. Silence descended.

He looked at Andrew, the inky marks around his eyes, the hard way he stared back at Neil.

They both flinched when a very different kind of sound rolled through the air. A laugh so strange and inhuman Neil wanted to tell himself it was just the night-ghast, but Andrew’s matching alarm told him this was wishful thinking.

“Solid effort from the Foxes least effective ferryman.” The voice that followed the laughter was worse, cracked and hissing, like the words of a man with his throat crushed. “Tell me, Minyard, did it pain you to have to try?”

Andrew rolled his eyes and pressed a finger to his lip. Neil nodded, fairly certain he didn’t have a voice to use anyway. Andrew eased himself onto his hands and knees, crawling to sit by Neil, their backs against the door. He lay his hand palm up on the ground between them in offering. Without having to think, Neil reached for it and curled his fingers around Andrew’s. Immediately more grounded, more settled, he sighed. Coaxing air back into his lungs wasn’t so hard with Andrew there.

The voice continued. “And dear Nathaniel Wesninski, was that really you? Son of the Butcher. Destined to be my number four. You can’t hide from me in there forever, you know.”

Neil’s heart jackhammered against his ribs. Andrew’s grip tightened.

“Then again, it’s taken a long long time for us to get to this point hasn’t it, Nathaniel? Do you remember all those years ago when we played as children? Kevin was there. Your mother was there. How is she by the way?" 

Neil felt like he was dying. This had to be Riko Moriyama but he had no memory of anything he just mentioned. Meeting him? Meeting Kevin?

He turned wide eyes to Andrew and shook his head frantically.  _I have no idea what he’s talking about._ Andrew’s expression didn’t change, his hand didn’t loosen or change.  _Please believe me, please believe me, please believe me._  

“Oh wait, she’s  _lost_. Stupid Mary Hatford, too paranoid to stay with her ferryman, devoured by the night-ghast in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.”

Acid scoured Neil’s throat.  _No_. No, his mother would never have… she had to be…

“She barely put up a fight. So full of fear, that one. My ravens feasted on all the things your father did to her. The days she spent protecting you. The nights she spent full of his desire. Your father loved to make her scream, did you know that? Did you ever hear her begging for him to stop? Did you put your head under your pillow and pretend you couldn’t hear her sobbing?”

Neil drew his knees to his chest, dropping his head and squeezing his eyes tight shut. He  _could_ remember his mother’s red-rimmed eyes at the breakfast table. He could remember drawing her a picture to cheer her up. The way she’d held him like the last good thing in the world. The way she’d beaten him bloody when he accidentally woke her up in the night during their first year on the run. He’d quickly learnt to keep still when they shared a bed, learnt to nap in the car when they travelled or to catch five at rest stops so he could stay half awake at night next to her.

“Breathe,” Andrew commanded, twisting his body so he could hold the back of Neil’s neck. “Everything he says is designed to hurt you. He’s a liar, Neil. You should be able to spot those.”

Tremors rumbled through Neil’s body and he pushed his attention to where Andrew’s skin touched his, where body heat made him feel human and real and less like the patchwork Pinocchio he’d been when alive. He started counting to ten.  _One, two…_

“I can taste your nightmares from here. You’ll be an absolutely delicious addition to my court. Won’t you come join me, Nathaniel? Come outside. Come to me. You know your place.”  

 _Three, four, five…_ Logically, Neil knew he was being baited and that Andrew was right when he said the only thing that would piss off Riko more than losing would be being ignored. But as he started to calm down, he wanted to bite back. Gods, how he wanted to shut the cruel mouth outside. Neil’s free hand tugged at his hair. His knees hurt where they pressed into his mouth. He needed to hold his tongue and take this, just take this and stay quiet like Andrew said. He could do that.

“Such  _fear_. Are you a coward just like your mother?" 

 _Or maybe he couldn’t,_ he stopped counting, surged to his feet, ready to lash out.

He had the words on his tongue:  _talk about a complex, Riko clearly wasn’t mentally stable having been banished to the underworld so that his own brother could live forever. How did that feel? Did he overcompensate with delusions of grandeur._  But Andrew rose with him, crowded him against the wall, wrapping his arms around Neil before he could so much as touch the door handle. One hand came up to squeeze dangerously around his throat, the other, still holding Neil's fingers tight, pulled him back against Andrew’s chest. Neil could feel how tense the other man was, the way he barely seemed to breathe behind him.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,  _Abram_. You open that door, you’re night-ghast food and I’m not coming after you," Andrew hissed. 

Neil sagged; Andrew didn't budge beneath his weight. 

“Pity,” Riko’s scratching voice called and Neil shook with how close it sounded. “I thought you were going to be more interesting than this. Your father certainly made you sound far more promising, but I suppose even cowards can be taught to obey. I’ll see you soon, Nathaniel. I encourage you to practice doing what you’re told between here and the Valley.”

Outside the night once again boiled over with noise – the howls and screeching voices of the ravens combined with what could have been a laugh, high and cruel and snatched up in the beat of wings. For a handful of minutes, Andrew continued to hold Neil, waiting for the cacophony to die away, for nothing but the wind to remain, and then he was gone so suddenly Neil staggered.

Andrew was already striding deeper into the house when Neil tried to apologise. Anger lined Andrew’s shoulders, bunching them close to his spine. Regret pooled in Neil's chest, filling him as painfully as a drowning man with water in his lungs.

Neil trailed after him into the kitchen, staying a little closer than he might have days before. He watched at Andrew dumped his blades in the sink with a metallic dink. They were covered in an oil-thick black substance that Neil knew had to come from the ravens.

“So that’s the night-ghast.”

“And Riko Mori-fuckface-yama.” Andrew washed the knives one by one, his motions methodical and calm. Along his jaw, his bruises were already fading black to grey. Neil wondered if his own hurts would repair so easily. He lifted fingers to the gash in his cheek and winced. He ought to clean that.

“Sit down,” Andrew said, waving one knife towards the kitchen table.

Neil obeyed, stiff and ready for a reprimand. Instead, Andrew wiped the three blades dry, twirled them between dexterous fingers and stowed them away so quickly it was impossible to follow just where exactly they’d disappeared. Next, Andrew pulled an orange tin from one of the bottom cupboards and plunked it on the table next to Neil’s elbow. He sat on the lip next to it and raised his hand. The question _, yes or no_ , was clear from the way he held himself just centimeters from Neil’s skin. Neil nodded and swallowed as those fingers began to poke and prod at the injury. He hummed as he checked first those on Neil’s face then the ones where his clothes had been torn.

“Abby’s salve should work. Hold still.”

Andrew rummaged in the tin and drew out two large tubs of what looked vaguely like deep yellow Vaseline with funny green bits in it. Andrew didn’t care though, he dipped his fingers into the paste and reached forward to slather it over the slashes over Neil’s cheek and nose. Stinging gave way to a prickling burn, but Neil held still. If he could withstand his mom with a needle and dental floss, this was nothing. Plus, Andrew’s touch was far gentler than any his mother gave him, it almost made him wish this wasn’t how they met. In limbo. The night-ghast hunting them. Riko and his band of feathery fiends trying to steal their souls. Maybe if they’d met in the real world, they might have been friends. Might have shared secrets as easily as cigarettes. Might have watched the sunset rather than run from it.

Neil swallowed a sigh, kept his eyes lowered. No point in wishing for the impossible.

When Andrew was done, he moved away from Neil, packing everything away and stashing the box once more.

“There are beds upstairs. You’re in the top bunk."

“Wait,” Neil said before his companion could leave. “I just… I’m sorry.”

“Shut up."

“No, really, I’m sorry, for letting go, I wanted to help, and I’m sorry for nearly snapping too. I just –”

“If you apologise one more time you’ll be crossing over minus your teeth,” Andrew’s words dripped with contempt. “And don’t think I wouldn’t love to antagonise Riko, but you make my job infinitely harder when you try to pull shit like mouthing off to him in the middle of the night whilst surrounded by his monsters.”

This anger was the most feeling he’d ever heard Andrew express, the disdain more painful than anything Riko said. Neil knew he should hold his tongue but, “I’ve heard you called monster too.”

It was the wrong – worst, very last – thing to say. Andrew sneered, pivoted on the ball of his feet and marched out, cigarettes already in hand.

The click of a lighter and a few seconds later, the smell of smoke wafted through.

Neil hovered by the kitchen door, unsure of whether to go upstairs or wait or try to apologise again. He had no experience to help him with this. He’d lived his life avoiding other people. The only person he’d spent any time with since he was a child was his mom. Everyone else was a brief encounter, approached for a purpose and abandoned as soon as that purpose was over.

Dithering, however, wasn’t really in his DNA either. He stepped in the shadowy hallway and saw Andrew sitting on the staircase, cigarette nearly down to the filter. A second stick was waiting, being rolled absently between thumb and forefinger. Andrew didn’t offer it to Neil tonight.

“You can use the shower first,” Andrew said with a mouthful of smoke.

“Thank you,” Neil tried instead of an apology, passing Andrew without touching him, mindful of all the careful distance that Andrew maintained when he wasn’t busy saving Neil’s pointless life.

He showered quickly and towelled off using the ruined jumper. Nothing was going to fix those holes; every thread was unspooling, hopefully Andrew would have something spare hanging around. It was a pity. He liked that jumper, the way it smelt slightly of Andrew.

Only once he’d clambered into the top bunk and curled under the blankets did he hear the shower turn on again. It seemed like forever before Andrew entered the room and came to bed. The bed creaked as Andrew settled.

Neil lay under his duvet, listening to Andrew’s breathing, noting how it stayed slow and steady He was lying awake below him, maybe even staring up at the slats and the mattress above him. He could imagine those impossible gold eyes glowing like they had in the moment before night-ghast arrived, aflame with ethereal power.

Finally, Neil caved. “Why bother? Why give me a chance?” he asked, glad of the dark and the distance between them.

The silence ate his words, gobbling them up and for a moment, he thought Andrew was asleep after all, that he wasn’t going to reply. “You were at 90%,” came his usual drawl. “For me to destroy a soul, I wanted to be at one hundred.”

“No one gives me chances,” Neil murmured. He wasn’t even sure he said that out loud.

“Maybe they were right not to.”

“Maybe.” But he was glad Andrew had. He couldn't shake the thought of how Andrew held him, stopped him from falling into Riko's trap. He didn't want to forget that feeling ever.

Andrew was something solid to lean against, something violent and fierce and unmoving. Neil couldn't remember what it felt like to have someone hold him up like that. It was terrifying and liberating all at once. What happened with his life - his soul - was way beyond his control; he was giving everything to Andrew and trusting Andrew would keep him safe.

Touching the pendant on his chest, Neil let himself focus on the strength of Andrew's arms and warmth of his chest. He ran his fingers over the chain, listening to the chime as metal ran against metal. He wondered if Andrew could feel him thinking of him, could feel his regret and thanks. 

“Go to fucking sleep, Neil.” Andrew’s aggravated command made a smile simmer at the corner of Neil’s lips. Who was he to imagine that something a little less than hate might be hidden somewhere down there?

He closed his eyes and surrendered. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels? LET ME KNOW.
> 
> You can also find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	9. bury me (face down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They were never going to make it.
> 
> But Andrew had an idea.
> 
> A ridiculous awful desperate idea.
> 
> An idea that he really wished didn’t seem like the only option left."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the eighth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify at the end of the chapter. 
> 
> TW: mentions of canon non-con events between Andrew, Drake and Proust. Also the night-ghast are back so nightmares abound. Sorry. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**chapter eight: bury me (face down)**

_“Acheron always says that our scars are there to remind us of out pasts, of where we've been and what we've gone through. But that pain doesn't have to drive or determine our future. We can rise about it if we let ourselves." - Sherrilyn Kenyon, Acheron_

 

***

Neil was _a problem._

Or maybe Andrew meant problematic.

“If only Riko would just choke on the shit he talks, so we could get a good night’s sleep,” said Neil between yawns, pulling one arm over his head to stretch out his shoulders.

_No, no, definitely a fucking problem._

And it was becoming dangerous for Andrew to keep trying to solve him.

Over the last few days crossing the waste land, it had become abundantly clear that no matter how much of a rabbit Neil admitted to being in life, in death he’d become mouthier than a howler monkey performing a mating dance. 

Since their first encounter with the night-ghast, Andrew had succeeded in keeping them from any more close encounters. That didn’t stop the Raven King from mocking them from outside their door. And it didn’t stop Neil from gobbing off to Andrew under his breath, muttering about all Riko’s deep-set daddy issues and clear god complex in a way that somehow sounded as vicious as it did filthy.

 _That fates damned mouth_.

But then Neil kept looking at him _like that_ as well. No matter how many times Andrew called him out on it, those too blue eyes would slide over to Andrew, drinking him in like he was something worth looking at, like he _saw Andrew_ for everything Andrew was and _didn’t see a monster._  

Neil said things. And he stared. And he leaned into the cigarette smoke with a smile that made Andrew’s stomach hurt. As they walked, he talked and they swapped truths about the landscape. Told Andrew about his frankly tragic life on the run, how he’d squatted in Millport until his exy coach became too nosy, how long it took to warm up after sleeping rough in Chicago during winter, how he’d lost his mother and her white bones buried in the black sands of California’s lost coast. And Andrew acknowledged when the waste land transformed into another cul-de-sac or suburban shadow from one of his many foster homes, he mentioned Cass and how she'd wanted to keep him, took his time detailing every inch of the car he bought with Tilda's life insurance and the house in Columbia with its Carolina summer storms and screaming orange falls. He regretted letting Neil talk about exy because the guy was clearly a junkie for the sport and as soon as he found out Andrew played in college, one small admission turned into half a day of discussion around teams and tactics.

Still, he couldn’t ignore that something was amiss.

The waste land changing for Andrew left him uneasy - and whilst it was hard enough to focus on the journey when his thoughts were so full of Neil’s stupid red curls and stupid knife-curve smile and those long runner’s legs - he had to think through what all these changes to the underworld meant.

Andrew had been dead for longer than he’d been alive at this point. Mortals weren’t meant to stay in the waste land as long as he had, let alone go through the Valley with such regularity. With each soul that he successfully ferried through Riko’s domain, a tiny piece of Andrew’s humanity tore away. He wasn’t sure how much was even left. He was a guide. He kept the night-ghast away. He didn’t feel – no fear, no loss, no lust. It was like being on Proust’s downers - only for the longest time he hadn’t cared about the blank, empty, nothing where his emotions used to be. And it was easier that way, stopped the waste land reacting to him as anything more than a ferryman.

His best guess? The manifestations were due to the fact Neil was still alive, somehow making the waste land more susceptible to the minds of those travelling through. It was only theory, but it was the best one he had; he definitely knew it was Neil’s doing - Neil’s projection of willpower - because the landscape seemed to shift between their different manifestations whenever Neil wanted to ask a question. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Not every time. It begged the question of what else the hollow men could do, beyond simply reign in the night-ghast.

 _But what if it’s nothing to do with the hollow men? What if you just find Neil interesting?_ Bee buzzed in his head, her probing voice light and daring. He could practically see her asking him too, his mind's eye filling in her warm rooms and hot cocoa.   

Andrew scrubbed a hand through the undercut of his hair and scowled. What ifs didn’t matter. Neil would be gone soon. Whatever the last four days of travelling had been, they’d be over tomorrow once Andrew helped Neil cross the Valley.

One more night. One more day’s travel.

Andrew wondered what the other side would look like for Neil.

“Wait here,” Andrew told Neil as they entered Eden’s Twilight, not checking to see if Neil did as he was told. The place wasn’t heaving, but the dancefloor was busy enough; on another night maybe Andrew would have hung around.

Not tonight though. For all that time liked to play tricks in limbo, the four days had passed by quickly, night coming in faster and faster each day. They’d arrived in the town on the edge of the Valley just as twilight started to descend. Constantly gloomy, someone had named it the City of Dreadful Night after a morbid twentieth century poem and it stuck, despite being much too small to be a city. It was, however, home to some of the best and worst of the dead – mostly the worst. Andrew wanted to see them safely to their final foxhole as quickly as possible but first they had a pick-up to make.  

Three bartenders were on staff, but Andrew was interested in just one of them, the faintly glowing man with the easy smile whose eyes burned green when they landed on Andrew. Roland.

The smile turned mischievous as he approached. “You made it then, find the place ok today?” Navigating the way to Eden’s was always a little tricksy, the underworld club had a tendency to move based on the number of people looking for a good time. Precious minutes had vanished as Andrew followed the signs to where it had gone this time, Neil disconcertingly quiet at his side.

“Fine." 

“Who’s the fresh meat?” Roland nodded at where Neil hung back near one of the tables, looking awkward and unapproachable with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed towards the crowds on the floor below.

“A nobody,” Andrew said. “You have what I asked for?”

“No small talk today, huh? Alright, hang about.” Roland pushed away and vanished into the back. For a fleeting moment, Andrew considered following him but shook himself free of the thought, turning instead to watch with some amusement as Neil used his death stare to keep anyone from talking to him. For a rabbit, he could hold his ground. It was why Andrew thought arming Neil was a good idea.

“Here’s your order.” Roland slapped down a box in front of Andrew, flashing his toothiest grin. Once upon a time that smile made Andrew’s stomach drop and Andrew realised that Roland was trying to figure something out.

He reached for the box but Roland was inhumanly fast, grabbing the edges before Andrew could make a move. Roland was another immortal who’d taken it upon himself to help the dead, only as a Virtue with a trickster god parent, his brand of ‘help’ was a little less traditional than Coach. He brought in stock from the living realms, food and clothes, weapons when necessary (which was most of the time with Riko’s growing army of demonic corvids). Andrew, who’d caught Roland’s eye at around the same time that Roland caught his, therefore had kept their business relationship even after the sex came to a natural stop. Immortals, it turned out, grew bored as easily as Andrew did.

“You want to tell me why you’ve ordered six jars of hot chocolate, more cracker dust than I’ve seen in years, and two new sets of blades? There something going on that the rest of us wastelanders ought to know about?”

It was a fair question, although Andrew felt he was giving away far too many answers these days.

“C’mon, can’t you let your old pal know what’s wrong?” Roland nudged when Andrew took too long to reply.

“I’m ferrying a soul that’s more trouble than it’s worth,” said Andrew, unwilling to say anything that would give away Neil’s secrets but not so self-righteous to deny Roland a version of the truth. “It shouldn’t impact anyone in town, but keep an eye out for Riko’s court, he’s pissed at me and the Foxes right now.”

Roland’s expression dimmed, mouth puckering into a frown. “He’s always pissed at you and the Foxes, what makes this different?”

Andrew shrugged. He’d said enough.

“Urgh, fine, be that way. I’ll let the others know Riko’s in a shitty mood." 

Shitty was an understatement. Neil evading his clutches night after night had riled Riko up into a frenzy if the storms they’d faced last night were any indication. They’d barely slept; instead, Neil had found Andrew in the kitchen and they’d spent the darkest hours with Andrew talking about meeting Aaron for the first time or Neil's handful of memories that didn't hurt. Neil’s fingers always ended up entwined with Andrew’s.

“Stay alert, that’s all I’m saying,” Andrew told Roland. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”

With the box tucked under one arm, he grabbed Neil’s hand on the way out and tugged him through the streets towards the safehouse. It was nearly full dark, ghost lights doing little to illuminate their route through town. Fortunately, no one paid them much mind. Riko, it seemed, hadn’t breached the town walls yet and they made it to the foxhole without issue.

Unlike the rest of the City of Dreadful Night, the foxhole Wymack kept there wasn’t quite so miserable and dripped with plenty of protections allowing Andrew to leave Neil smoking on the terrace without too much worry. He put the hot chocolate and cracker dust away first, storing them for his return. Neil would make the crossing once; Andrew would have to face his demons twice and if the Valley reacted like the rest of the waste land, the manifestations were going to draw up all and every one of their worst nightmares. He could already feel the itch of unwanted hands on his skin, the desperate urge to cut and control. No matter how many years went by, some horrors never truly disappeared.

He carried the now mostly empty box back out to Neil, placing it between them before lighting up.

As had become customary, Neil took the cigarette offered to him and leant forward so Andrew could light it. He stayed like that, a breath closer than Andrew usually accepted. But Andrew _did accept it_.

“You seem to have an endless supply of these,” Neil said, holding the tip of his cigarette dangerously close to his eye.

“Died with three in the pack,” said Andrew. “No matter how many I smoke, there’s always the same number left.”  

“That’s useful." 

Andrew hummed. “More like pointless, not like we really have lungs." 

“But it feels like we do.”

“For you maybe.”

“You mean you don’t get anything from smoking here? Why bother?”

Humming again, Andrew didn’t say that with Neil he felt more alive than he had in years, that the smoke he breathed with Neil burned like it could fill the cracks left where his humanity once had been. He glanced across at Neil, noted how the blue eyes were focused on the cigarette dangling from Andrew’s lips. He drawled his answer between smoke. “Oral fixation.”

The tips of Neil’s ears pinked. The snake in Andrew’s spine knotted even tighter.

They lapsed into silence, comfortable and deep. Andrew retreated inwards, letting himself stroke over the strange feeling below his sternum and above his stomach, trying to identify the emotions churning there. Refusing to accept any of the possibilities he came up against.  

There was no point in entertaining such feelings anyway. The trigger would be gone soon. It didn’t matter that his body sang with the sensation of something starting, when the reality was it would soon be at an end. 

He chained another cigarette and shifted so Neil was in the line of smoke. Neil sighed and shuffled around too, their knees knocking. Andrew hated himself for not pulling away. The press of their legs burned.

“What happens if I can’t cross over?”

Andrew slid up from the silence like a shark through the surf, the shape of his thoughts turning deadly. “Then Wymack’s offer stands. You can become a Fox.”

“But that would put all of you in danger,” Neil said. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“What would you do instead? Run?”

“Run. Hide. You know I’ve got the experience to give it a shot.”

“And you know you can’t outrun the past down here.”

“I have to try.”

Andrew hummed a little in mock disapproval. “Have to nothing. You have more than one choice this time. Do you want to be a Fox? Yes or no?”

“Yes.” Neil’s answer spilled like a prayer.

“Then what would it take to make you stay?”

Neil’s eyes went wide, his expression amusingly shocked. You’d think no one had ever done something nice for him before with a face like that.

Andrew laughed quietly and leaned forward before he could think about what he was doing; he hooked a finger under Neil’s chin and closed his mouth. “If you can’t crossover, what would you need to accept a position? Name it and it’s yours. It doesn’t matter what it is so long as it means you stand your ground, here, with us.” _With me._

“I can’t.”

“You can. You have everything you need to survive. You want me to stand between you and Riko, I can do that. You want to help Abby and Betsy with their fucking flower garden, we can make that happen." 

“Why?” Neil asked. “Why help me? You know all the trouble following me. You’ve heard Riko, he’s not going to just let me go.”

“Ask me when this conversation becomes relevant,” Andrew said. “We get through the Valley and the Rift doesn’t open for you, we’ll figure this out.”

 _This_. Five days of travel – a little under a week of knowing Neil – and Andrew had a hundred definitions for _this_. Never had a pronoun felt so heavy.  

Neil bumped their knees deliberately this time. “Thank you,” he said in a way that told Andrew he didn’t just mean for the pep talk. The rabbity fear hadn’t entirely left his eyes, but Andrew noted the way Neil’s mouth had become a determined line, the same expression he wore in the middle of the night when they lay awake listening to Riko’s abuse. Andrew hated that look.

“Don’t fucking thank me. You’re not meant to pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side.”

A small laugh bubbled out of Neil, accidental and beautiful, and if Andrew let his own lips twitch upwards, they were both self-aware enough to pretend it hadn’t happened. Andrew looked at the box between them, remembered the knives he’d intended to give Neil, and decided it could wait. He'd keep hold of this peace with Neil a little longer. 

***

When morning arrived, Andrew did give Neil the knife set along with a warning that made Neil’s face pinch with stress. He didn’t panic though, and he didn’t say no when Andrew helped him strap them beneath his clothes. Neil knew Andrew wouldn’t joke about this kind of thing, trusted him enough to just accept the weapons for what they were: a last line of defence.

With that out of the way, they made quick time through the streets and soon found themselves back onto the road, passing through the whalebone arches that marked the edge of the town boundaries. Beyond the walls, the path was practically bog land and they hovered just beyond the outskirts, looking out towards the horizon.

 _This was it_.

“We don’t have to go immediately,” Neil murmured. “We could go back… have breakfast in town.”

 _We don’t have to go at all._ Andrew swallowed the words that threatened in his throat. Instead he gave Neil a withering look, unimpressed. “That’s a great idea. Let’s just wait until mid-afternoon and then hit the Valley at nightfall. Live dangerously, why not?”

“Okay, it was just a suggestion,” Neil grumbled as he took the first step into the marsh. His trainers squelched ominously. He winced, but he didn’t sink and Andrew turned away.

He strode ahead through the mud, trying to put enough distance between them to think. He was perplexed. He’d never cared about saying goodbye to a ghost before. Sure, when he first started as a ferryman, he’d been mildly interested in the dead folks he was assigned – Wymack’s criteria for who the Foxes helped meant everyone was a little broken, somehow _deserving_ of extra protection and assurances. Andrew had listened to them at first, put up with them as they grieved for their lives and futures and the people they left behind. But he’d never been that interested in other people and slowly the years in the waste land hollowed him out, scorched him dry. He couldn't remember ever having cared about a soul passing on before or being left behind.

 Then in dropped fucking Neil, digging his way in where he wasn’t allowed. And Andrew felt like he’d been staring into a black hole only to discover he’d already passed the event horizon.

 _You’re not as smart as you think you are,_ he mocked himself. They would face Riko. Neil would cross over. Andrew would trek back through the Valley alone.

Ten minutes of trudging and the road began to slope downwards. Puddles turned into slow oozing streams. Their feet slid beneath them, slipping on the mud. Andrew dropped back to keep an eye on Neil.

The valley itself, when they came to it, was unremarkable. A fairly wide path wound through it, and the sides looked gentle enough. At this stage, it looked more like a country walk, the path winding and made of little pebbles that never failed to remind Andrew of long abandoned railway lines. The hills around them undulated upwards, covered with short grass and wild flowers. Only as they moved deeper, shadows crawled out from around them, growing dark and deep and tight. Cliff walls erupted from the hills, rising up as the path continued to descend, curving inwards and pinching the sky until it was little more than a narrow slit of light.

Neil was anxious; tension was in his posture, the bunch in his shoulders that gave away how much he wanted to just start running and not stop, but Andrew paused, bracing himself, trying not to think of the previous journeys he’d taken through here or the nightmares they were about to encounter.

“You’ll see things in here, but they’re not real. Remember that.” Andrew stretched out his fingers and when Neil nodded, curled them around his left hand. 

Neil straightened out and flashed his sharpest smile. “If you have to walk through hell, might as well do so like you own the place,” he said when Andrew raised an eyebrow.

Andrew shook his head and tightened his grip on Neil’s hand as darkness finally enveloped them. For all his talk, Andrew could feel how Neil shivered in the cold shade.  

Laughter was the first clue that they weren’t alone. Cruel, echoing laughter. In the corner of his eye, Andrew could see shadows scything down the side of the rocky cliff face. Not shadows. Night-ghast. Their listing, howling, haunting cries were absent for once, instead there was just the laughter echoing from cliff face to cliff face.

“Is that Riko?” Neil whispered.

“Yes,” Andrew said. “We’re in the heart of the waste land here, as soon as it’s dark enough, they’ll attack en masse. They always do.”

It was how it worked in the Valley. This was Riko’s land, his kingdom, home to his Court. And no matter how predictable that sequence was, the knowledge gave little by way of advantage.

“So glad you could join us,” Riko’s voice called.

 _So glad. So glad. Join us. Join us._ The cliffs echoed his words, or so it seemed. Andrew knew better. From the darkness, two dozen humanoid bodies began to lurch forward, their movements graceless, jerking, like marionettes under a child’s unpracticed hand.

Jean’s palid face was the first to become visible and Andrew felt Neil recoil. Like all of Riko’s court, Jean was a horror to look at: his skin was waxy and mask-like, the left side of his face a ruin with the cheek ripped clean away to expose too sharp teeth and jaw hanging loose, temple caved in. His eyes were blank pools, shiny black pebbles rubbed smooth by the ocean floor. Jean wasn’t the worst though. Behind him came Engles, spidering towards them in a crouched position, nose ripped away, mouth slathering. Then Johnson and Reacher, both with their necks at strange angles, horrible smiles showing off teeth that had been shaved into fangs. All of them shared the black-pit stare, like an abyss was all that existed inside them.

 _So glad. Join us. So glad. Join us._ Jean raised one hand in a mockery of a salute and Andrew flicked a knife into his free hand.

“Don’t let go.” Andrew knew Neil had learnt his lesson from that first night but he needed to say it, needed Neil to say he’d do as he was told this time.

“I won’t,” Neil said and it rang true as a promise.

“How touching. How sweet. Does poor, unwanted Andrew Doe actually care about little ghost Wesninski? How sad. So sad. But he belongs to me, Doe.”

_To me, Doe. Belongs to me. Doe. Poor. Unwanted. Sad. Belongs to me. Belongs to me._

Flicking his gaze around the cliffs, Andrew couldn’t see Riko, but he could tell from the thrum and hiss around them that they were surrounded. He kept them inching forward. They had to go through the valley.

“Last chance, Nathaniel. Join us. You were born to be part of my kingdom.”

Neil bit back. “Your kingdom? You’re part of a cult. Call your dad. Oh wait, you can’t right? Because your daddy is the one who sent you here?”

“Brother, actually,” Andrew said, remembering a long ago conversation with Kevin.

Riko clearly didn’t find it funny. The air seemed to chill instantly. A gust of wind drop up the valley and lifted Andrew’s hair around his face. The breeze hissed in his ears, echoing the noises from the night-ghast, and he picked out the distinct howling of hungry ravens, keening somewhere above them. They were gathering on all sides.

For a heartbeat, it was as if time stopped, suspended on the brink of chaos. Every nerve in his body was stretched tight, adrenaline pumping through his veins, muscles tingling, ready to fight. Andrew took a long, deep breath, and the air rushing into his lungs thundered in his ears.

Before he could exhale, before he could blink, time sprang back into being and everything burst into action. The ground heaved beneath their feet and countless night-ghast erupted from behind the members of Riko’s Court. Twisting and hissing and writing in the air, they swooped and slashed, diving and weaving around them, spinning them around, crashing through Andrew’s head, his chest, his stomach, turning his insides into ice, making nightmares burst in his head like a pot boiling onto the stove. Andrew pulled Neil closer and lashed out but the night-ghast turned wraith-like and immaterial, screaming and mocking them. This was nothing like he’d ever seen before. Never had Riko put in so much effort into an attack.

Faceless things caught in his hair and tugged and pulled, causing needle-like pains in his scalp and he was falling – _he was face down on a twin bed with his hands pinned and his body thrashing beneath another; he was seven years old and staring at the door to his bedroom as footsteps climbed the stairs; he was twenty, with glass in his eyes and Drake looming over him._

Andrew knew these were memories twisted up and transformed by the night-ghast but that didn’t stop the next barrage from dragging him into the worst corners of his own mind.

_Drake turned to him and told him how much he’d always wanted to fuck twins; Neil rocked himself like a child, his blue eyes turning black and dull and hollow._

_No. This isn't real. Neil is not a hollow man._ Andrew grunted, wrenched himself out of the nightmare and stabbed at the monster wrapped around his head, it screeched as he landed the blow and he felt the claws retract, setting him free.

“Neil, run!” Andrew yelled through the confusion of sound and movement.

But Neil was frozen. His mouth was an o-gape of despair and his pupils were pin-pricks, lost in his own nightmares. Andrew tugged on his hand and jerked them into motion but Neil’s legs weren’t cooperating.

“ _Abram_ , come on. It’s not real. You’re in the waste land. We need to run.”  

Above the cacophony of noise, Riko led a chorus of cackling laughter. A yank on Andrew’s hand told him Neil had staggered but his eyes were clearing, the horrors shaking free, and then they were sprinting, legs pumping harder than Andrew thought they’d ever gone in life or death.

The night-ghast didn’t stop their assault though they couldn’t take a firm grasp thanks to Wymack’s pendants and their new speed and Andrew’s flashing knives, which were soon joined by Neil's as well, the two of them turning into deadly duet, wielding blades like conductors of their own orchestra.

One thing became abundantly clear the longer they fought: even together, they were never going to make it. Not this time. There was no way with this many night-ghast and all of the hollow men that they were going to cut through. The road was blocked to them.

But Andrew had an idea.

A ridiculous awful desperate idea.

An idea that he really wished didn’t seem like the only option left.

He yanked on Neil’s hand and pulled them off the path. 

The world darkened even further, the screams of the night-ghast growing frenzied, joyous.

“What the – Andrew what are we doing?”

There was no time to explain. Andrew was careening towards where he knew Jean and the court lurked, pulling the knife that Neil had manifested on his first day free as they stormed into the dark. Jean’s ruined face was in front of them seconds later and then blood splattered through the dark – thick, wet, black blood that hung in the air like beads from a broken necklace. Still smiling that awful smile, Jean’s face split in two.

A furious shriek cut through them both, loud enough to send Andrew and Neil wincing into each other. It was enough to buy them time.

Off the path Andrew knew there was a river. Long ago when the world was new, the river had carved the waste land into the shape it was now, including the Valley. Some called it the Acheron – the river pain, the river of woe – it was the river Charon ferried the dead over and it was the river that could carry them all the way through the Valley and out the other side, untouchable to Riko and the night-ghast. It was how Kevin had escaped Riko, throwing himself in and experiencing every memory, every pain, every agony over and over in the river until he was spat out on the banks by the Rift. It was also the River that killed Seth. The former ferryman had gone after a soul who’d been dragged down by the night-ghast and ended up in the Acheron. The water hadn’t killed him, what the water showed him had. It broke him. He later took off his pendant and walked out into the night unable to survive any longer.

“Listen,” Andrew whispered over their ragged breathing. “In a minute, we’re going to jump from a considerable height into a river. You’re going to face every dark and awful thing in your life. It’ll hurt. But it’ll take us all the way to where we need to go and Riko can’t follow us in without doing the same.”

Neil’s eyes darted to his for a moment, didn’t even seem to think about what Andrew had told him before saying, “Okay.”

_Fates, how Andrew hated Neil, his blind trust, his relentless will to live._

The roar of the river could be heard now, a bass line below the ravenous howling of the monsters behind them.  

Andrew could see the lip of the cliff that would drop down into the river below. Andrew swallowed. 

They didn’t slow. A hundred metres. Fifty metres. The cries of the night-ghast. Riko’s enraged shriek as he realised where they were going. Twenty metres. Ten metres. Five.

And they were stepping out into the air.

Andrew pulled Neil’s body into his, ignoring his instinctual distaste for physical contact and wrapping his arms tight around the lean, runner's body. The drop seemed endless. He remembered carrying Neil into the foxhole after they fled Riko for the first time. He thought of Neil’s smile between tendrils of smoke. He held on to the memory of Neil’s hand in his and how his mind went jagged at the sensation of their interlocked fingers – terror and disgust and desire – the desperate wish to kiss Neil’s smart mouth just to shut him up. Andrew clutched Neil close as they plummeted down towards the river.

When they struck the icy water, he feared his heart might stop.  

The force of the river was terrifying, flowing fast and hard as an avalanche. The roar from above was deafening even beneath the water, but with the battering chaos around them, it was all Andrew could to hold on to Neil. Assuming they didn’t drown, they’d come out somewhere near the Rift, that was what mattered. They’d be free of Riko for a time. 

His heart was hammering, the lungs he’d all but forgotten about until Neil burned. The water was so cold, he was losing all sense of his body. They spun through the water, senseless in the impenetrable dark and impossible noise, slamming into debris carried along in the current. Andrew could taste blood in his mouth, could feel the water seeping between his lips. The ache in his lungs was unbearable but he knew what would happen if he drank in the water.

It didn’t matter in the end.

His attempts to stay free of the river’s magic was futile.

They were tumbling through the dark, and then the dark was gone, the river was gone, Neil was gone. 

All that was left was Andrew.

And a white-washed, cinderblock cell.

And Dr Proust with the needle that once killed Andrew still in hand. 

“How nice of you to visit, AJ,” the nightmare Proust greeted him in voice that was half his, half Drake's. “I do hope you’ve left plenty of time for us to play.”

Andrew stared up from where he lay on the bunk, realised with absolute despair that he felt too heavy and drugged to respond. He couldn't fight back. He couldn't escape. He was entirely out of his own control. 

Remembered horrors rolled through him, one by one taking him apart. It could have been minutes or hours or months or weeks. 

Somewhere in the icy dark of the river Acheron, Andrew Minyard’s soul began to drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ
> 
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	10. (me and the) devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We made it,” he croaked. “Andrew. Andrew, we made it.”
> 
> There was no answer. And there was no other movement around him either, no rustle of clothes, no ragged panting to match his own. The ice in Neil’s heart returned, multiplied twelvefold. He was scared to turn around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the ninth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end.
> 
> TW: There's some horrible nightmare fuel involved in this one - mentions of past torture, past non-con and possible character death. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter nine: (me and the) devil**

_“You may fetter my leg, but Zeus himself cannot get the better of my free will.”_

_―_ Epictetus

***

 

Neil crawled from the darkness, soaked, bruised and gasping into the bright, blanching light of the moon. His entire body felt as if it had done a round with Lola and Romero, pummelled and battered and full of bone-deep exhaustion. His clothes were soaked with icy water and his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. If he hadn’t been so desperately, giddily happy to be alive and breathing, he might have given thought to the fact that he had no idea where they were or even where they were supposed to be. It was enough to be on this bank, amongst these reeds, no longer tumbling through the water full of every vengeful ghost that had ever haunted him.

“We made it,” he croaked. “Andrew. Andrew, we made it.”

There was no answer. He closed his eyes. Listened. There was no other movement around him either, no rustle of clothes, no ragged panting to match his own. The ice in Neil’s heart returned, multiplied twelvefold. He was scared to turn around. 

“Andrew?”

Neil pushed himself up onto his knees, afraid to look and confirm what he suspected. His need to know won out. He forced his aching body to move, opened his eyes to survey the scene around him.

A whimper escaped his lips before he could stop it. All around him was emptiness. The dark river burbled at his feet in a glossy ribbon, the reeds swayed in the breeze. But he was alone. Entirely, heart shatteringly alone.

Andrew hadn’t made it.

***

 Neil didn’t know how long he sat on the riverbank, praying for a sign of blond hair or broad shoulders. He couldn’t take his eyes from the river. Any moment Andrew was going to walk out of it, bedraggled and battered but fine. He was going to scowl at Neil and take control. He had to. Neil’s heart crashed in his chest, his muscles felt locked in stone. Completely drained from the day, his body started to shake.

After what may have been mere minutes, his trembling limbs began to seize up, and he knew he had to move. The cold seemed to have penetrated to the very core of his bones.

He groaned as he pulled himself together, not daring to take his eyes from the river. There was a chance Andrew had just washed up downstream, Neil told himself. They were just separated. This didn’t mean that Andrew was injured. It didn’t mean he was drowned.

Neil managed to get his legs underneath him and, with a willpower honed from years on the run, hauled himself to his feet. He stood, swaying, and started to walk, picking his way first upstream for ten minutes until he saw the faint outline of the Valley against the horizon and then doubled back. He called out for Andrew every few steps, knowing how pitiful he must sound and not caring. Andrew could be hurt, could be unconscious somewhere, could be lying in the rushes and unable to call for help. Neil had to find him.

Feeling empty in a way that was somehow worse than the cold, Neil walked until the sun was climbing in the sky, until every step sent shooting pains from his soles to his hips; his head pounded, and he longed to rest, but he couldn’t. He knew if he stopped now, he wouldn’t rise again. Without Andrew, the waste land was overwhelmingly barren and lifeless. Endless. Loneliness and fear dredged up feelings that hadn’t had a chance to surface since he was killed. Visions of his father swam in front of his eyes, blurred by the new nightmares from the river Acheron. He wondered what they’d done to his body, where they kept him, how they’d keep him secret. Did the Moriyamas have a facility for the hollow men? Would they let Nathan Wesninski use it if they did? He gulped, trying to ease the tightness in his throat. For a second, he could almost feel the press of his father’s cleaver against his Adam’s apple and another hard shudder had him doubling over, dry heaving into the mud at his feet.

 _Keep going, keep going_ , he chanted in his head. Andrew would be nearby. Andrew would be fine.

He wiped his mouth on his wrist. Longed for clean water. 

The adrenaline that had kept him swimming through the dark was leeching out of his system, along with the last vestiges of his body heat. His psyche felt close to collapse, crumbling like a wall full of dry rot as everything from the last week rushed at his weakened mental barriers.

With every step, the pendant Andrew had given him thudded against his chest. It all seemed so unfair. From the snippets Andrew shared of his life, Neil understood that his ferryman had faced the same darkness, outlived the cruelty of other people for as long as he could. They’d both stared into the abyss and learnt to live with the monstrous thing left under their skin. They were survivors. They were meant to survive.

It was the longest day Neil had spent in the waste land. The shifting landscape that had become almost homely over the past view days had vanished; and every time he saw a flash of yellow or gold or light on the river, he hoped it was Andrew. It never was.

“Get yourself together,” he told himself. Tried to imagine Andrew’s bullet-bright glare telling him to suck it up and stop being pathetic.

But he felt pathetic. Neil’s clothes were still damp and uncomfortable, the jumper he’d borrowed from Andrew now hung heavy rather than snug. His shoes squelched every time he took a step. _God, where was Andrew?_

He kept thinking of the water, of the dark. He remembered Andrew’s arms cradling him tight to his chest as they fell, how his jaw jarred painfully against Andrew’s collarbone as they crashed through the water and into the icy blackness. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment where either of them let go – one minute they tumbled through the chaos and the next he’d been screaming under Lola’s hand, under his father’s, been tied down with a cloth over his face as he choked on water again and again. There were moments too, where it felt like he’d swallowed some of Andrew’s memories: he’d seen a stranger, recognised him as _Drake – as self-loathing and revulsion and pain –_ but then the scene shifted and he was screaming under the blaze of a dashboard lighter, begging for it to stop. 

Another shudder rippled through Neil and he bent over his knees, queasiness roiling in his gut when there was nothing left to throw up. Just thinking the name Drake had punched a hole through to his spine – he didn’t want to consider about what it meant, not when Andrew hadn’t given him that name, hadn’t shared that story with him. The idea of having accidentally donated some of his own memories to Andrew didn’t settle well either. He wouldn't wish them on anyone else. 

For once, Neil wished his mother’s voice would ring in his head, telling him what to do, how to keep moving. He needed her. He needed someone to ground him, to stop him from falling apart.

 _Andrew, Andrew, Andrew,_ his heart tattooed the ferryman’s name against his ribs, over and over. He needed Andrew.

Already, it was growing dark again. The sun weak and watery in the sky. Andrew had explained how the weather in the waste land was driven by the emotions of the souls crossing over. He guessed his fragile state of mind was why the sun never burnt through the cloud, why it stayed overcast and cold. Knowing why wasn’t going to help him though when darkness fell. Neil had no idea where the safehouses were, if there even were foxholes to hide in this side of the Valley. Andrew had made out like they’d cross, and the Rift would be just _there_ , waiting, on the other side. When Neil took his eyes off the river though, stopped searching for Andrew for even a second, there was no sign of anything – no pearly gates, no spooky veil, no gap in time and space, or any other understanding of “rift” that Neil could conceptualise.

Another hour sauntered by. The thought of facing the night-ghast alone caused a trickle of sweat to slither down Neil’s spine. He knew he couldn’t fend them off by himself.

The sun sank, dropping lower, lower.

Neil’s shivers returned. His head felt stuffy and his chest hurt. 

Day faded into dusk, into twilight, into night.

 _It was all for nothing,_ he realised. Everything they’d done, him and Andrew, to get here, to stay out of the reach of the night-ghast and the hollow men and Riko… it was all futile.

Around him, it began to snow. Soft, white flakes fluttering down from the starless, indigo sky. They stung his skin with how cold they were. He looked out over the river and clutched the pendant between numb fingers.

_Andrew, where are you?_

Andrew had made him believe in something bigger, made him think that he wasn’t such a lost cause. He was ferocious and honest, the most solid and real person Neil had ever met, and when he called Neil  _Abram,_ he said it like the name was holy.

 _You can’t be gone_.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Neil barely registered the moment where the snow-filled dark drew closer, when the sound of the river began to fade against the rustle of feather and bone.

He did notice when the first night-ghast skimmed his shoulder, spinning him around so fast that his heart nearly leapt from his throat. Around him the world had redesigned itself again; whilst the river held its shape, woodland had sprung up along its banks, all eldritch trees with skeleton branches snatching at the sky. Neil could see the night-ghast hanging between the boughs, crooked shadows belying the presence of the hollow men sifting below them.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” came Riko’s familiar croon. “I did wonder how you’d find your way here. Took your time, didn’t you? Did you dawdle? Did you spend all those precious hours searching for your lost fox?”

 _Didn’t you. Didn’t you. Lost. Lost. Lost._ The hollow men swayed around Riko, their voices like scythes cleaving through fields of wheat. Neil’s hands jerked for the knives strapped to his forearms. When Andrew gave them to him, he’d been sceptical but now he was glad to have them, to feel the heft of them in his hand and know he wasn’t defenceless.

“Aren’t you going to face me?” Neil said, glowering at the shadows. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Silly boy, didn’t your father ever teach you about the power of imagination?”

“If you’re about to go Willy Wonka right now, kindly let me leave before the Oompa Loompa’s start singing,” snapped Neil. A blast of arctic wind sent ice into his face and he threw a hand up to protect his eyes. He couldn’t see Riko but he knew the man wasn’t pleased.

“That tongue is going to mean a world of pain for you, Nathaniel. But a lesson in theory first: for most people, what you dream of being done to you will always be so much worse than what can actually be done. Waiting for pain is worse than the slip of a knife under your skin. Your brain will conjure every nasty thing and imagine that instead. Are you following?” Riko’s voice turned sing-song-cruel. “Your blank face suggests not. Then again, I suppose when you live under the same roof as a murderer, there’s very little mystery left about the killing process. Imagination must be lost on you. And of course it wouldn’t do much good here since I really can do the worst things to you. Over and over and over until your soul disintegrates and I earn the power to rebuild it. So funny, how the underworld works, don’t you think?”

Neil fake-yawned, loudly. “All I’m hearing is that you’re chickenshit and probably ugly as fuck too or you’d show your goddamn face,” he said. Pretended to blink sleep from his eyes. Swallowed. Kept his grip tight around his knives.

A ruinous laugh bounced from Riko to the hollow men, round and round, eddying as fast as the snow. For a second, all that existed was white, howling, horrible, mirth and then came an even worse hush-quiet.

Between the trees a shadow slipped – tall, slender, moving with unnatural elegance, completely unlike the hollow men lurching in the background. He approached, quick and sure-footed. That didn’t make his face any less obscene as he emerged from his cloak of shadows. Neil took an involuntary step back, eyes bugging in his face.

Riko Moriyama, for all that he moved with the ease of an athlete, was far from human. His skin was ink black from wrist to elbow, chin to collarbone. His hands were long, spindling fingers with sharp talons. His eyes were tiny, red bird's eyes set deep in black pits. And his mouth. That was the worst of it. A human jaw had been wrenched apart to make space for a long, cruel beak like a plague doctor’s mask.

“Don’t you like what you see, Nathaniel?” Riko’s words were high-pitched and hissed, ripped lips twitching around the beak to show a set of teeth in a grotesque grin.

But that wasn’t why Neil was so horrified. He recoiled because he had seen this face before when he was a child, days before his mother woke him in the middle of the night to flee his father. He’d thought it was a nightmare. Figured his brain had been playing tricks after one too many scary poems before bed.

“Y… you…” Words failed him.

“M… me? Oh, you remember me now? Good.” Riko cackled, the beak snapping open and shut. “The first time you visited this world you were too young to carry the burden of your father’s great destiny, his immortality, at the side of the Moriyamas, but you were marked for me from the start.”

On his shoulder, the iron brand burned and the memory seemed to dislodge, morph into something new and uncanny – the heat of the iron, the pop and hiss of his skin, and then a different pain, choking, a cord around his throat, his mother’s screams begging his _father to stop, to please stop, he’s our son, you’re killing him, you’re killing him._ Riko had been there, beaked and blazing with hate, claws digging into Neil’s chest. Neil remembered Riko telling him to count the number of cuts he left behind.

“We played a fun little game didn’t we, Nathaniel? Would you like to play again?”

“No,” Neil shook his head. _This couldn’t be real._

“No? But I so want to and it’s not like you have a choice, really. How long have you been walking down this river, Nathaniel? All day? Didn’t you wonder where the Rift was? Didn’t you stop to think that maybe – _maybe_ – it simply won’t open for you?”

Neil held his ground as Riko swept closer. His blood thundered in his ears, his hands trembled around the knives. He’d barely thought about the Rift, too concern for Andrew and whether or not the pint-sized ferryman was alive.

“Did you not realise that this is exactly where the Rift should be? How sweet.”

Riko came to a halt just metres away from Neil, his burning gaze fixed on Neil.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. If you were trained, you’d be able to see it too. The thin, shimmering line where the Rift lies. But you can’t see it. And you can’t cross over.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Denial is more infuriating than ignorance,” Riko said. “Let me try again in little words your small mind can understand: you will not cross; you were born for this; you belong to me. This is the last time I will tolerate a refusal from you. Do you understand?”

Neil was already in his coffin. He might as well nail it shut. “Yeah, I understand you’re as big an asshole as Kevin and Andrew made out. I belong to no one.”

“You will kneel,” Riko snarled, voice a ripple of fury echoed by the hollows.  _Kneel. Kneel_. 

“Make me.”

Neil saw the talons come up, but Riko was too fast for him to dodge. They caught him in the face across his cheek and the side of his mouth. Neil stumbled under the force of the blow and crashed backwards into the mud. He didn't feel it; he couldn't feel anything but the fire eating through his skull. A sour flash across his tongue might have been blood but Neil's mouth was too numb for him to be sure. He brought a hand up instinctively to check his flesh for injury, but Riko caught him in the ribs next. Then his shoulder, and his arm, until Neil was a curled in a bloody ball in the dirt and snow. His knives sunk into the slush.

Riko paused. Commanded again: “ _Kneel, Nathaniel.”_

Looking up with a bloody smile, Neil shook his head again. He sprawled in the pinking snow beneath him, would rather die in the dirt than bow to Riko. He remembered Andrew’s words from days before, that the only way to defeat someone like the raven king was to refuse him what he wanted, that all that mattered in the waste land was willpower.

 Riko couldn’t break him. He didn’t know how. “Never.”

“You know, secretly I did so hope you’d say something that. How about we add a little more incentive, hm?” Riko raised one ebony hand and snapped his fingers. One of the hollows began to stagger from the woods. It was carrying something, a bundle, small and black with a tangle of wet blond hair.

 _Andrew._ Neil felt his stomach lurch, as if tugged on by a puppet master. _Andrew_.

But Riko blurred and blocked his view, bending close to Neil with that vile grin twisting around his beak once more. Neil stopped, breathing ragged and every nerve ending raw.

As the hollow drew closer, Neil recognised it as the one that Andrew attacked so they could escape the Valley, only now its face was flayed open from chin to eyebrow in a thick, diagonal stripe and the skin around the wound had blackened, peeled back, begun to rot. It was hideous. More important, however, was the body in its arms.

Limp and lifeless. Skin grey and mottled like Kevin’s hand. Lips black and cracked.

 _No. No. No._ If Neil was standing, he was sure his legs would have buckled. Ice crackled through him. _Andrew couldn’t be…_

“Thank you, Jean.” One of Riko’s talons traced down the hollow’s face, leaving a thin scratch the beaded with blood seconds later. The hollow didn’t react at all, just stared at Neil with eyes blank as glass. “Now, Nathaniel, let’s try this again. Kneel to me. Give yourself to me. Or Minyard goes to the night-ghast.”

Neil’s heart was a rabbit, thrashing in the cage of his ribs. His snow-numbed fingers clenched in the mud, white hot pain lanced through his back as he rolled onto his front, trembled there, caught between decisions.

Andrew would hate him for caving to Riko.

But Neil would never forgive himself for not helping when he had the chance.

“What will you do with him if I come with you?”

“We can leave him wherever you want. Maybe one of your precious Foxes could even wake him up again.”

Around them the hollow men snickered.

 _He’s a liar_. Neil heard Andrew’s voice in his head, painfully real. _You should be able to spot those._

But did it matter if Riko was lying or not? He had Andrew’s body. If there was even the slimmest of chances…

The pendant bumped his sternum as he pushed up onto his hands and knees _._

Neil had to try. Andrew had given up so much already. In life, he had nearly killed four men for assaulting Nicky. In death, he had stayed in the waste land for decades just to keep his promise to Aaron. But when it came to crimes against his own person Andrew couldn't care less. He held his life in less regard than he did anything else and Neil hated that with a ferocity that was nauseating. Andrew deserved to cross over. He deserved to meet his brother again.

Neil knelt in the dirt, head bowed.

Yielding like this went against everything he’d ever been taught. He had been raised to run. To sacrifice everything and everyone to ensure his own survival. But Neil was nothing and Andrew _deserved better_ than this as his ending.

“Good boy. Was that so hard?”

A deep thrum began to stir the air around Neil, a vibration so low and heavy as it seemed to come from way below the earth and high above it at once. The snow grew heavier, more frenzied.

“I’m going to love hurting you,” Riko said. “Going to love carving you up, turning you into something as pretty as Jean.”

“You are seriously fucked up,” Neil said.

Another of Riko’s claws slashed against Neil’s face, whipped his head so fast his neck creaked.

Glancing up through his lashes, Neil saw that horrible, beaked face was smiling and realised that for all his father was a monster, he’d never looked at Neil like this. What had happened to Riko to make him so twisted? He’d been human once. Who had done this to him? Neil was never going to have an answer. The noise around them grew and grew, the thrum met and matched by the sounds of the night-ghast and the hollow men, turning them into a chorus of wild animals and demonic fiends. The noise juddered inside Neil's bones, scouring his nerves, stripping him of feeling, chilling him, leaving nothing behind but the rimy ruin of his body. Ice tore through him. It cracked and growled, and roared and howled.

And Neil knew this was it.

This was the moment he would never come back from. He had grown up on pain but Riko wasn’t using pain to control him. It all came down to freewill – and Neil would willingly pay whatever price necessary to keep the ferryman from giving up the last of himself.

He stole a final look at towards Andrew – only Jean’s marble eyes met his gaze instead, peculiar and lucid and _brown not black_ , and suddenly more of Andrew’s words were in his head. _You’re in the waste land, in the waste land, waste land.  It’s not real not real not real._ Jean looked down at the bundle in his arms.

Realisation dawned. 

That thing in Jean's arms wasn't real. Wasn't Andrew at all. It was a trick. 

“ _Who is your King, Nathaniel?”_ Riko asked.

Neil spat in his face. 

Riko froze. The thrum vanished into silence so profound it felt like a thunderclap. Strings cut, Neil's body collapsed into the snow.

Then the sky burst with light.

If the Valley had been all hell breaking loose, Neil figured this was heaven. Everything for miles was illuminated. Impossibly white snow shone under a crackling sphere, held high in the air by a woman – tall and blond and terrifyingly beautiful. She sliced through the night-ghast in a whirling, twirling dervish; the orb swung around her hand in ferocious arcs like a boomerang, leaving the demons screaming in agony, screeching for cover in the trees as the hollow men dropped to the snow with hands flung over their black beady eyes. Riko too shied back from the orb, his mangled face a horrowshow in the artificial brightness. His fury stark as the shadows on the ground.

“Neil, go!” The woman yelled as she sprinted across the snow towards him. In the light, he could see a familiar pendant around her neck. Neil didn't have to be a genius to figure out that this must be Allison, the Fox who'd been out delivering a soul when Neil had been invited for dinner. He felt hope, a faint, tremulous thing growing in his throat. 

Allison was fast. By the time Neil had scrambled up onto aching legs she was with him. Her spare hand pushed him forward and they ran along the river.   

“This way,” she panted, veering off into the rushes.

A boat lay hidden amongst them. They scrambled onboard, Neil collapsing into the bottom as Allison pushed off from the shore.

The orb began to flicker above her head, shivering like a candle getting ready to gutter out.

Punting the boat effortless across the river, they made quick time to the opposite side of the river. She tugged Neil to his feet once more, dragged him up the bank. Behind them, wings could be heard, distant but there. The night-ghast were regrouping as the light dimmed down and down.

Yet up ahead there was refuge: a tiny cottage with the lights on in the windows. Neil gathered the last of his strength, forced his muscles to keep moving.

The orb sputtered once and died.

For a heartbeat, Neil was once more blind in the dark, terror closing his throat in its fist, but then the front door to the cottage opened. A familiar figure stood silhouetted in the light.

Neil crashed into Andrew, sending them both flying across the cottage floor with a grunt.

For a second, it was all Neil could do to scramble closer, to reach for Andrew's hand. His skin was warm, strong, calloused, familiar. His eyes burnished gold. His face bruised but flushed with life. His pink lips split to match a graze over his chin. This Andrew looked like he’d gone a round with a river, but this time the river hadn’t won.

The world tilted. Neil lost his breath. They came too shallow to reach his lungs, too fast to do him any good. His body was numb and shattered and his insides were quaking. The next sound he made was unintelligible, aborted, but Andrew’s fingers were a sudden and unforgiving weight on the back of his neck.

“Stop,” Andrew said. “It’s over. We’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my sweet baby Neil, this chapter nearly killed me so I hope you all survived ok! Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	11. (bulletproof) heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s over. We’ve got you,” Andrew said. I’ve got you.
> 
> He squeezed the nape of Neil’s neck and inched closer across the floor. His leg screamed in complaint, but Andrew’s pain didn’t matter. Not when Neil was alive, alive, alive, his pulse jackrabbiting beneath Andrew’s fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the tenth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end.
> 
> TW: Details of inflicted torture (from Riko) and brief mentions of past non-con / rape. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter ten: (bulletproof) heart**

_“And in that very moment, away behind in some far corner of the city, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed reckoning nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn.”_

_― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King_

*** 

“It’s over. We’ve got you,” Andrew said. _I’ve got you._

He squeezed the nape of Neil’s neck and inched closer across the floor. His leg screamed in complaint, but Andrew’s pain didn’t matter. Not when Neil was _alive, alive, alive_ , his pulse jackrabbiting beneath Andrew’s fingers.

Neil was safe.

Neil was also a mess.

The left side of his face was a blur of blue and black shadows, a long gash ripping along his cheekbone and dried blood stood out starkly against his fair skin. His jaw was mottled purple and mouth flecked white and black. Worst was his eyes. They were shattered glass letting too much sunlight in. Every single emotion poured from him – panic, elation, deliverance, desperation. His breathing was noisy, painful – all rattling and rasping – as he tried to suck in air only to choke on his anxiety. Andrew had been here before, back when he was human, and knew Neil wasn’t going to calm down whilst sprawled and vulnerable on the floor.

Shifting them both across a few agonising inches to the nearest wall, he dragged Neil upright and forced Neil’s head between his knees. He kept one hand on Neil’s neck, the other on his shoulder to keep him from collapsing.

“Count, Neil _,”_ he said. “In for one, out for one. In for two, out for two. In for three, hold for three, out for three. _Abram, breathe_.”

Comfort wasn’t his strong suit, but Andrew kept counting for Neil until the wheezing stopped and his trembling shoulders reduced to small shivers along his spine. Sometime in the process, Neil’s fingers found Andrew’s hand on his shoulder and pressed over the top. Andrew allowed Neil his need for reassurance. If his own head drew close to Neil’s, if his nose brushed against sweat damp curls and bumped the shell of Neil’s ear, if his body turned into the quivering one at his side – then of course Allison Reynolds was going to point it out.

“Touching.” Allison chose that moment to remind them of her presence. “Andrew are you making a move on a dead kid having a panic attack?”

Andrew felt Neil go still under his hand and he slowly pulled back to provide Allison with his deadliest glare.

Allison did not care. “How about instead of scowling at me, monster, you say: _why thank you Allison, you’re a goddess, thank you for saving my boyfriend from becoming a hollow._ How does that sound?”

“Not a monster,” Neil murmured at the same as Andrew said: “How about you shut the fuck up.”

One of Allison’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rose in amusement. “This is so precious.”

Andrew’s fingers twitched for his knives, but he wasn’t going to let go of Neil. Not yet.

“You’re Allison.” Neil said, his voice muffled and thick as it rose from between his knees.

“The one and fucking only.”

“Thank you. For whatever you just did. What was that? That orb thing.”

Allison’s eyes flicked to Andrew and back to Neil, annoyance glittering in her gaze. “ _That_ was a debt being paid. The monst—Andrew asked me to pay back in full,” she explained.

“Okay,” Neil said slowly, still not uncurling. “But what _was_ it? It basically blew the night-ghast apart.”

“It was a piece of _lux aeterna_ , the essential opposite of what the night-ghast are. Pure ethereal light. But that was nearly the last of it. Minyard made me promise to use it to save you if necessary.”

“Oh,” Neil said. “That was… it was… thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome, sweet thing,” Allison crooned. “See Monster, that’s how you show gratitude.”

“He’s _not_ _a monster_ ,” Neil said again, a little of that fierce anger Andrew hated so much seeping into his voice.

Raising his head seemed to take Neil some effort. Bleary-eyed and bruised, he squinted at Allison and tried a savage smile – but it wobbled almost instantly, slipped into something more assessing. He took Allison in: the blond waves of her hair, the golden tan of her skin, bow lips and skin-tight jumpsuit revealing every curve of her hourglass physique. Allison was aesthetically gorgeous, but Neil’s attention barely lingered, instead blue eyes turned to Andrew. Something warm crooked below Andrew’s ribs.

“I looked for you,” said Neil.

And the warmth snuffed out.

He knew Neil had searched for him. Knew, as well, that Neil had been terrified – since Allison found him on the banks of the Acheron, Andrew had been able to sense every second of Neil’s despair, his anguish and loneliness, thanks to the pendant hidden beneath Neil’s clothes.

“Reynolds found me first,” Andrew said. His thoughts spiralled back to the moment he had jerked back into the world of the wakeful, choking on foul-tasting water, feeling someone on top of him. He had been half-conscious, and there were hands on him: Drake’s, Proust’s, a dozen touches that _took and took and never asked_. He had gagged on the memories: the nightmares that were his, the infiltrating horrors that were Neil’s. Someone had pressed down on his chest again, forced air from his lungs. His reaction hadn’t been pretty.

“And I’ve got the bruises to prove it,” Allison added, rubbing at her abdomen pointedly.

Andrew didn’t care that he’d lashed out at her, that his fists had struck hard and fast. He’d relived his worst memories, been forced to swallow a number of Neil’s as well – in that moment it had been all he could do to bully himself into breathing deeply, grounding himself in the present _._

The thing he did care about was how much he’d given away as he struggled to push himself upright, to focus and make sense of the jumble of shapes around him. He’d noted the black ribbon of the river, the shadow of the Valley in the distance. He’d acknowledged the woman, scowling and rubbing her side where he’d struck her, blond hair still perfectly styled, jumpsuit pristine. But nowhere in sight was a shock of red curls or a trace of fair, freckled skin. It didn’t take long for Allison to do the maths on why he reacted with so much rage.

Reflexively, the hand on Neil’s nape scrubbed upwards to tangle fingers in the back of his hair. He could pretend the movement was to reassure Neil, but Andrew simply didn’t want to think about that moment when the world bottomed out and Allison Reynolds was there as witness.

Hell-fire roared through his veins, furious and infinite. He’d made a promise to Neil, to protect him, to help him crossover. He was not going to renege on that deal.

But he’d come close on the banks of the Acheron.

Andrew didn’t do regret. He knew they’d both have been destroyed in the Valley. But when paralysing pain sent him hissing into the bulrushes – his left leg stained black as Kevin’s hand, ripped open from hip to knee – he’d punched the earth with such ferocity Allison checked his hand for breaks. He was fine. He was furious. Allison left him in the cottage as she went to rescue Neil.

 _Helpless, useless_ , Andrew hadn’t felt such crushing anger since he lived with Cass.

Sitting, waiting, doing nothing. It didn’t suit him. He stitched up his leg. Forced himself to reach out for Neil’s emotions through the pendant: they were a constant, nauseating, murmuration – swooping from hope to grief and grief to hope. He knew Neil was thinking of him, associating these _feelings_ with him, because that was how the magic worked. But Neil came apart over and over, pulling himself back together a little more slowly every time. And Andrew hated Neil for every painful second of it. Hated himself for not being able to stop that pain. Hated that it felt like Andrew was falling and he knew, even though they’d survived plunging into the Acheron, that this time the fall might destroy him. 

Still during the long wait, his consolation was in the secondary knowledge that Neil was alive, still free. Allison was on her way with a piece of _lux aeterna_ and she owed Andrew a life debt from when he’d pulled her back from the edge after Seth killed himself. He'd never intended to cash it in. But the lengths he'd go to save a certain rabbit were quickly becoming clear.

Then the snow came. Through the pendant, Andrew felt something in Neil shatter, hopelessness blistering through him like a storm over the arctic tundra.

 _Come on, Reynolds_ , Andrew had looked to the sky and the falling snow. _Bring him home._

When the night began to thrum, Andrew knew what that meant too. He’d wanted to tear apart the world in that moment.

“Hey now, Minyard, don’t break your new toy,” Allison said, tone light, but her eyes when Andrew met them were narrow. He didn’t miss that she hadn’t called him Monster.

Andrew glanced back at Neil, saw how his hand had tightened to a fist in the red curls, pulling back to expose Neil’s long, pale throat with its freckles scattered like constellations. He watched in fascination as Neil swallowed, larynx bobbing. He dragged his eyes up the bruised jaw, across Neil’s ruinous mouth, to the eyes he knew would be watching him back.

“Staring,” Neil rasped.

“I hate you,” said Andrew. He meant it. He really hated Neil and his stupid blue eyes that looked at him like _that._ Like Neil was the prayer and Andrew was the answer.

“You’ve mentioned that. A couple times actually.” Neil leant into Andrew’s knuckles and Andrew loosened his grip enough to scratch lightly at Neil’s scalp. Neil’s eyes fluttered and he became even more loose-limbed.

“You know what, I think I’m going to leave this to you guys. You should maybe clean up, Neil. Get some beauty sleep.” Allison announced, though neither of the two men glanced her way. She muttered something under her breath about Renee owing her for the amount she put up with and slipped away.

Andrew waited until he heard a door slam down the hall before he pressed two fingers to the underside of Neil’s chin to turn his head. Neil let himself be guided and said nothing while Andrew looked his fill at the violence inflicted on his skin.

“We do need to treat this.”

“More of Abby’s magic salve?”

Andrew wasn’t sure even that would stop the nasty black spread of Riko’s marks on Neil’s face. “Up,” he said.

Letting go of Neil was hard; standing up was harder. Moving for both of them meant nudging at the edges of their pain. Andrew had to reach for the cane Neil knocked out of his hand when he barrelled in from the dark. Neil held himself with the stiffness of the bruised and exhausted, like his muscles were wet concrete and his bones rusted metal.

Andrew hobbled ahead, guiding Neil to the bathroom – by far the nicest room in the cottage, spacious and warm with a large tub and a sofa that Andrew used whilst stitching his own thigh back together. It had a decent enough medical box, which he retrieved while Neil wavered in the middle of the room. He didn’t seem to know where to stand, or sit, or what to do.

“Take off the jumper,” Andrew told him, pointed at the settee “Sit.”

Neil hesitated but perched on the edge of the seat, plucking at the hem until Andrew glared and he pulled the damp woollen jumper free. It was the second that Neil had ruined but it was hard to hold that against him when the t-shirt lifted with it, briefly letting Andrew catch a glimpse of a taut stomach and hip bones littered with old scars, fresh bruises.

Memories swallowed in the depths of the Acheron threatened to make a reappearance as Andrew caught sight of those scars. He wanted to reach out, trail his fingers over them, understand the weft and warp of them as they stretched over lean muscles. He resisted. He grabbed a wash cloth, waited for the water to run warm and then set about cleaning Neil’s injuries. The gash over his cheek was by far the worst. Neil went very still, trying not to wince as Andrew used precise, methodical motions to remove the mud and grit, cleaning the wound until it was healthy pink instead of mottled black. At least there was some benefit to being able to bleed in the waste land beyond being able to transform into night-ghast falconer.

“You’re a mess,” Andrew muttered.

“What else is new?” Neil shrugged, winced.

Andrew filed that away, handling Neil in the same detached way Abby treated her patients: efficient, if not gentle. After Neil’s face, he turned to his hands where the backs looked battered, no doubt struck whilst Neil held them up in defence. The same went for his forearms, striped green and yellow and brown where bruises bloomed.

The smell of salve filled the room: comfrey, borage, sage. Andrew took his time smoothing it over the gashes and scrapes, pleased to see some of the less deep bruises lightening almost instantly where the balm was applied.  Tracking one particularly vicious-looking wound that ran the length of Neil’s collarbone, Andrew nodded to the t-shirt.

“Take it off.”

Neil tensed, eyes spooked, hands twitching at the hem again like he wanted to keep Andrew from pulling the fabric away from him. “Why?”

“Because Riko doesn’t tend to hold back when he’s got live prey.” And because Andrew could see how Neil held himself, stiff but vigilant, breathing carefully to avoid antagonising bruised ribs and battered shoulders.

Andrew waited for Neil to think it through, to process his options.  “I’m… it’s not… pretty.”

Andrew said nothing. He could see what this cost Neil. Understood. After a beat, resolve settled over Neil’s features and he started to struggle out of the t-shirt, managing to lift it over his head to his elbows before Andrew decided to step in and tug the fabric off Neil’s sore arms. Andrew tossed it to one side, uninterested in where it fell. His attention was on Neil.

On the scars and the bruises.

It had been one thing to _know_ about Neil’s scars from their truth game, it was another to see them.

Riko’s wrath had left brutal welts across Neil’s shoulders and arms, the left side of his ribs looked like a patchwork continent of colour. And underneath them all lay ugly scars, making rivers and valleys of Neil’s skin. Some ran thick and red and angry; others caught the light, thinner and white with age. There was the perfect imprint of a hot iron on Neil’s right shoulder. A bullet hole puncture – puckered and shiny pink – pierced the flesh above his right hip. This damage was more than a life on the run. This was a map of torment, a guidebook on why running never worked, a sign of Neil’s boundless will to survive.

When Neil reached for Andrew’s wrist, he let him take it, let him drag Andrew’s palm to the scarred skin. The shudder that ran through Neil reminded Andrew of a sea breeze undulating through sagebrush and pampas grass, tense muscles rippling where Neil tried to relax under Andrew’s hand. When their eyes met, Neil’s expression was daring – he didn’t need Andrew’s sympathy or anger, but what he wanted was a mystery to Andrew.  

Choosing instead to do what he’d said he would, Andrew set about making sure Neil’s new injuries were clean, smoothed over the salve, and was pleased when Neil slowly relaxed as some of the pain from his ribs melted away. His breathing came more easily, the catch of anxiety disappearing from his inhalations. As Andrew attended to the gash along his collarbone, Andrew could feel little pants of air against his own skin and wanted to snarl.

Memories from the Acheron still rose and fell inside his head, memories that he knew were not his own but that the scars under his hands refused to let abate. Turning Neil on the seat so he could reach the bruises on his shoulder blades, Andrew grit his teeth. Untidy pink stab wounds scattered their way down Neil’s spine, across the back of his ribcage. 

“I’m taking a turn,” Andrew said.

“Hm?” Neil’s head jerked as if he meant to turn but thought better of it. “In the truth game? Okay.”

Andrew was quiet a long time, finishing applying the balm before dropping his hand to the scars, tracing one then another and another. “How many of these came from your mother?”

Neil didn’t’ flinch but his weight shifted, chin tucking down into his chest. “Why do you want to know that?”

“In the Acheron, I experienced a number of memories that weren’t my own,” Andrew said, keeping his voice flat and bored. “I saw a woman, felt weak and humiliated and confused as she raged. You were scared of her hitting you again. She was waving a gun.”

Neil dragged in a shuddering breath. “Yeah, right, okay. That was when I was fifteen or so? I kissed a girl and mom found out. She was so furious, but she was just trying to keep me alive, y’know? She was just teaching me not to be stupid.”

 _Neil kissing girls_. Andrew’s head buzzed with images he didn’t want to consider. “Your mother beat you,” Andrew said tightly. “I don’t care why. How many?”

Neil sighed. “Maybe a third? Others would probably have healed better if we’d gone to a hospital or even just a proper doctor but mom was paranoid. And after a while, I didn’t pay much attention other than to hide them.”

And that made sense of another memory Andrew had inherited, of teenage Neil, pale and bird-boned, staring into a mirror with dark hair and dark eyes, checking his collar to make sure the loop of scarring over the top of his chest was hidden.

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. It was _wrong, wrong, wrong_ to have these foreign recollections in his head. But at least they made a decent distraction from the nightmare reminders of his own life history.

“I think… I think I also saw a memory that’s yours,” Neil said and the tone had Andrew’s hackles up. “A man. Drake…”

Andrew clapped a hand over Neil’s mouth, smothering whatever he meant to say next. He let go after a minute, recoiled, shoulder’s bunching, knuckles clenching white. His stomach pitted out like someone had opened a trap door to the abyss and he felt that bristle-sharp rage scouring his insides once more. Andrew had shared snippets of his life with Neil – mentioned Cass whilst they made their way to the Valley. But he’d avoided mention of the foster brother that drove him to the edge and nearly tipped him over it. Andrew had lived his life, ticking down the seconds until his death. It hadn’t come as a surprise when Proust’s needle did the job he’d never quite managed to complete himself.   

Noticing how Neil shivered now they weren’t close enough to share body heat, Andrew stood, limped his way over to the linen closet and pulled out a fluffy white blanket that he thrust at Neil, who pulled it around his shoulders. Hatred flared in his gut – he burned with equal parts frustration as Neil covered up and repulsion for his own desire. _Neil kissed girls, wasn’t that what they had learnt tonight?_

But one thought niggled behind Andrew’s teeth and he needed the answer even though it hurt him to free these words into the world.

“Is that why you knelt to Riko?”

Had Neil seen what other men, other monsters, had done to Andrew and decided he was better off not fighting? Had Neil made a judgement call against who Andrew was and what he could handle? Andrew was not weak. He was not defenceless. He kept his promises unlike any and every other person he’d ever met.

“What?” Neil’s eyebrows tugged together, nostrils flaring. “No. Fuck. How did you even… No.”

“How did I even know about that? Oh, my dear rabbit, every person in the waste land felt how King Beakface’s power stretched when you bowed to him. The underworld _trembled_ with the weight of what you nearly did,” Andrew said, snarl kept behind his teeth. “It was a new low, even for you.”

“I was going to ask how you even came to that conclusion, actually,” Neil snapped back. He looked ridiculously small with the blanket around his shoulder, his curls still damp and face so bruised. “But I didn’t _bow to Riko_ because I found out you were…” He stumbled over the sentence.

“Raped. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

“Raped,” Neil repeated, a murderous look rising between the set of his jaw and the storm in his eyes. “I didn’t bow because you were raped. _I thought you were_ _dead_. Jean had your body in his arms. Riko said if I didn’t, he’d feed you to the night-ghast. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Andrew stared at Neil. That wasn’t how this worked. Other people didn’t take the hits for Andrew Minyard, he took care of himself and he took care of his family. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I need your protection.”

“I had to do it or neither of us was surviving. You’d never see Aaron again. All deals would be off. One of us had to make it.”

And apparently Neil had decided that it would be Andrew who lived.

“Twisting the knife I gave you, using Aaron against me. Clever,” Andrew said through clenched teeth. He stalked forward until he was right up in Neil’s space again. He hated how Neil’s eyes dilated. Hated how his own pulse accelerated. Hated Neil. The rabbit was a fool and a self-sacrificing martyr and Andrew didn’t want or deserve that loyalty. _Neil was a problem_. “You chose to kneel when you told me you wanted to stay. Were you lying or was I breaking my promise?”

“You know what I’ve survived,” Neil croaked. “And I want to stay. But I saw one option and I took it.”

“If you’d gone through with it, I would have killed you.”  

“Good. I would thank you for putting a knife through my throat,” Neil said, sincere and without even a modicum of self-pity. “I’d rather be nothing than one of them.”

“You’re already nothing.”

“So, it shouldn’t be that hard for you, right?”

 _It would be impossible_. It would be the one thing Andrew could never come back from. Killing Neil would be the one thing that hurt in this saints forsaken waste land.

“I'm beginning to think you don't know the meaning of the word 'deal'. Do you have a hearing problem?” Andrew leant so close that their foreheads grazed. “Too many concussions perhaps? The next time Riko comes for you, either fight back or let me fucking deal with it.”

“If it means losing you, then no.”

“You're an idiot.” Andrew wished he had a cigarette, wished he could stub it against Neil’s skin and watch him scream. “You are a pipe dream.”

Frustration clouded Neil’s eyes and too late Andrew knew he was lost. They were so close to one another, Neil’s response was a breath of fog against his lips and Andrew found himself leaning into his warmth, his words.

“I’m not a hallucination.”

_But he was. He had to be._

The waste land had turned Andrew into something subhuman, barely existent bar his role as a ferryman. Neil was something else. At first glance, he appeared muted and reserved, fragile as bone, skittish as a stray tomcat slinking along the margins of society. But take a moment, beneath his broken nails and desperate eyes – Neil was so much buried light, waiting for someone to get their hands dirty, someone unafraid to unearth all that savage fire and give him the kindling to burn.

They were so close. Noses a touch apart. Breathing each other’s air.  

In that second, Andrew wanted nothing more than to lick the idiocy out of Neil’s mouth. He wanted to kiss Neil until their lips were sore and their skin buzzed, bury his nose in the crook of Neil’s throat, suck his way along those too-sharp collarbones. He wanted to leave Neil with new marks on top of the patchwork of scars, a trail like paw prints in the snow from clavicle to pelvis. Marks that would stain instead of scar.   

Andrew wanted to kiss Neil.

But Neil kissed Andrew first.

It wasn’t much. A ghost of lips against his. There and gone.

It wasn’t enough.

Growling, Andrew surged forward, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that was more teeth than tongue. He caught Neil’s face with his hands and kissed him like the world was ending, like this was the last stand before the final battle. His heartbeat thrummed a staccato rhythm, one he could feel echoed in Neil’s veins.

This kiss was Andrew – furious and unrelenting and coming apart at the seams.

And it was Neil – all of his dichotomies imprinted into a single expression – his smart mouth and his stupid martyr complex, his recklessness and excruciating will to survive, his lifetime of lies and his dying wish to be real, true. 

Andrew gathered Neil against the back of the sofa, pushing him backwards, keeping careful inches between them where the memories from the Acheron bubbled and burst. Neil sank back into the cushions with a broken sound that made Andrew’s stomach knot and burn. He wanted to hear that noise again, wanted to know every sound he could draw out of Neil with just his mouth and then some.  

A fleeting touch was the trigger, the grace of Neil’s fingers skimming the fabric of Andrew’s sleeves, as if he knew not to touch without permission but needed something to hold onto.

_God how Andrew hated him._

With a snarl Andrew shoved himself away, he was not going to do this now.

Andrew fumbled for his cigarettes, lit one, inhaled as deep as he could, feeling the raw red burn down his throat into his chest. He was not going to do this when Neil was too stupid to tell him no. When only half an hour before Andrew’s hands had been around Neil’s throat, able to feel Neil’s carotid hammering beneath his fingers, scrambling to escape a panic attack. Andrew was not like  _them._ He would not become yet another nightmare haunting the waste land. 

Neil stared up at Andrew – breathless, wary, curious. The blanket pooled around his middle. His lips were red and swollen and wet. His hair rumpled. He looked thoroughly ruined.

Questions, ineluctable, hung between them, trembling in the pull and push of their gaze.

Neil was not the prayer. Andrew was not the answer.

But desperately, dreadfully, he wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As first kisses go... 
> 
> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	12. (need you to) stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Neil twisted his mug around and around in his hands, but the silent challenge between Allison and Andrew had him on edge. It didn’t help that he and Andrew hadn’t spoken since their kiss the night before. He kept telling himself that now wasn’t the time to be thinking of it, but his mouth still remembered the weight of Andrew’s lips and the way his body tingled like a summer storm under Andrew’s hands, heavy and crackling with static electricity. Neil shivered, knew Andrew hadn’t missed it, and decided to distract the two ferrymen the only way he knew how. 
> 
> After all, he thought, your mouth can’t get you into any worse trouble than it already has. Right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the eleventh chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end.
> 
> TW: Crude language but really this is mostly fluff, you're safe for once. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter eleven : (need you to) stay**

 

_“It was my life – like all lives, mysterious and irrevocable and sacred. So very close, so very present, so very belonging to me. How wild it was, to let it be.”_

_– Cheryl Strayed, Wild_

_***_

“So let me get this straight,” Allison said, tip-tapping manicured nails on the kitchen table. “Or not so straight as the case may be. This sweet boy is actually Nathaniel Wesninski. Son of the Butcher of Baltimore, from whose house we’ve picked up more ghosts than anywhere else. _Neil_ is only half dead because of some weird ritual that his dad got from the Moriyamas, who happen to be immortal gang lords that – _somehow –_ use Riko and the Hollow Men to control the night ghast and increase their lifespan to the point that they can’t die – and now they want to turn Neil into one of them too. 

“You, Monster, figured all this out just because he couldn’t bleed. Then Kevin decided to share a few details and you fed Neil alethian tea so he’d spill all his secrets. You decide to across the waste land _just to see if maybe he could cross over anyway_. And then you had me use almost all the rest of our _lux aeterna_ because you decided it would be a great idea to have a swim in the bloody Acheron. Am I getting this right?”

Andrew took a sip of his heavily sweetened coffee and met Allison’s heated words with a detached expression as ever. His eyes were blank, polished gold.

“ _Am I getting this right, Minyard?”_ Allison repeated. Her irritation sticky and uncomfortable in the tiny cottage kitchen.

Andrew’s eyebrow quirked.

Neil twisted his own mug around and around in his hands, but the silent challenge between Allison and Andrew had him on edge. It didn’t help that he and Andrew hadn’t spoken since their kiss the night before. He kept telling himself that now wasn’t the time to be thinking of it, but his mouth still remembered the weight of Andrew’s lips and the way his body tingled like a summer storm under Andrew’s hands, heavy and crackling with static electricity. Neil shivered, knew Andrew hadn’t missed it, and decided to distract the two ferrymen the only way he knew how.

 _After all,_ he thought, _your mouth can’t get you into any worse trouble than it already has. Right?_

 “Well,” Neil said, “Riko told me that I couldn’t cross over. But maybe that was a lie too? Another trick?” Neil tried not to think about the bones in Jean’s arms, the horror of thinking Andrew was gone.

Redirecting her attention, Allison’s mouth tipped down in sympathy. “I’m sorry, hun, no. He wasn’t lying about that. The Rift wasn’t open for you.”

“Ok. That’s… fine.” Neil nodded. He always figured it was a long-shot, no matter what Andrew and the others said. People like his father and the Moriyamas were not the sort to leave easy loopholes, least of all in creepy death rituals to keep themselves alive and kicking. “So, yes then, you’ve pretty much got everything right.”

Allison cracked a smile, but it withered when Andrew took a long, loud, slurp of coffee followed by a lip-smacking sigh. “You’re revolting.”

“And you’re a bitch,” said Andrew, with zero inflection. “What’s your point?”

Allison threw up her hands with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Seriously? Look outside. The sun is shining. The sky is blue as a daydream, but there’s snow eight inches thick out there.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m not usually one to think of practicalities but Riko hasn’t gone far. No matter how lucky you guys are feeling, there’s no way we can get back through the Valley with just three of us and we’ll run out of supplies in a week or so. What do you expect to happen next?”

 “Whether you do or whether you don’t, often depends on the weather,” Andrew replied. He sounded bored, like this conversation held little interest to him and less value. “Or in this case it depends on Neil.” 

“Me?” Neil blinked, frowned. 

“Obviously.” Andrew’s lilting southern accent made a reappearance as his gaze met Neil’s. “I asked you what it would take. It’s time for you to make a decision.”

 _You have everything you need to survive._ Their conversation in the sanctuary back at the City of Dreadful Night felt like aeons rather than mere days ago, but Andrew’s words drifted back to Neil now and he remembered how they grounded him like an anchor, gave him something to hold onto. _You want me to stand between you and Riko, I can do that. You want to help Abby and Betsy with their fucking flower garden, we can make that happen. Name it, and it’s yours. Stand your ground._

With Andrew looking at him across the table, the world faded at the edges. Not enough to erase Allison’s radiant and unignorable presence, but still leaving Neil with the distinct feeling like he was facing down a tunnel and Andrew was waiting at the other end. He didn’t know whether that reassured or terrified him. 

“Then ask me,” Neil said, mouth running ahead of his brain. He paused. Repeated himself more certainly. “Ask me again.”

Andrew’s mouth twitched, the way it did when something amused him. “Do you want to become a Fox? Yes, or no?” 

“ _Yes_.”

Allison coughed. “You guys really need to stop talking like that. I feel like a voyeur.”

“Keep your kinks to yourself, Reynolds,” Andrew quipped.

“I will if you will. Nobody else needs to know about your exhibitionist streak.” She paused. “Wait, I take that back. Everyone needs to know. Nicky will have a field day _._ ” 

Either Allison was braver than Neil would ever be, or just much, much stupider. She didn’t even blink as Andrew put down his coffee and dragged his hands over the black armbands hiding his knives. Nor did she seem to care about the loose violence in Andrew’s shoulders, the new tension under his skin. 

Neil recognised it though. He’d seen it right before dusk when Andrew was waiting for the night ghast. He’d seen it as they approached the Valley and Andrew took his hand. And he saw it last night when Andrew wrenched away from him, cheeks pinked and mouth grim.

 Neil still didn’t know what to make of that; Andrew’s kiss and abrupt retreat were equally bewildering.

“So what’s your genius plan for getting this sweet baby angel back to Fox Tower?” Allison asked, remaining unconcerned with Andrew’s mood. “He’s made a choice. What’s next?”

“Coach is on his way here.”

“He’s what?” 

“He sent the message last night. He’s bringing back up too. Matt, Dan, Renee.”

“All this for one ghost?” Allison looked incredulous, slightly angry. “I get that he’s one of yours now, what on earth does he have that’s so special that the whole team is involved? What about the other souls we’re meant to ferry?”

“They called in a favour from Knox and the Trojans.” 

“And that still doesn’t tell me why Neil’s so special. Why him?”

 Her words tangled in a way that made it seem she was seconds from asking a different question. Her ‘w _hy him?’_ , sounded a lot like, ‘ _why not someone else?’;_ Neil peered at her, at the perfect line of her brows, the flicks making her eyes long and cattish. She wore make up like warpaint and he spotted a hint of the warrior who saved him in her irritation towards Andrew.

“Because Neil's asked to stay.” Andrew made it sound so simple. 

But Allison’s face pinched, her hands knotting. “It’s not fair.”

And Neil knew he'd guessed right – that Allison lost someone along the way and felt Wymack and his Foxes should have done more for them. He wondered if she loved that person, whoever they were, and whether they’d been her reason for staying in the waste land. Everyone had a reason, like Matt and Dan for their grandchild, or Erik and Nicky for Andrew, and Andrew for Aaron.

“If life or death were fair,” Andrew drawled. “We wouldn’t be Foxes.”

The words rang true and therefore felt twice as cruel, yet Allison took the blow like she’d taken the night-ghast, head on and unphased.

“When do the others get here then?” she asked. 

“Couple days.”

“Well at least the Valley should be easy for them. Feels like the entire demon hoard of Moriyama is camped outside our front garden right now.” 

Andrew hummed agreement and Neil glanced out of the window to the snow blanketed world beyond. There was a palpable chill, even with the fires crackling in the grate, but outside the snow was virgin and untrampled. Nature felt hushed, stuck in its brumation, the coldly burning sun casting rays of glittering shadows around the cottage. It felt like they were a ship adrift on a white and silent sea, entirely isolated, entirely exposed. Cold fingers stroked their way down Neil’s spine, the sudden awareness of their vulnerability making him shiver.

 _What do you think is going to happen here_? Neil could imagine his mother’s smug disdain. _You’re_ _sitting ducks. Six against an army of immortal monsters. They got me. They’ll get you too. Can’t you feel how close they are? Didn’t I teach you better?_

The urge to run quickened Neil’s pulse and he turned away from the window; he couldn’t let himself go down that road. Hunching down in his seat, Neil turned his attention to the dregs of his coffee. The grounds looked like fallen apples, spears, and there to the right could be a mountain; he squinted, if he tipped the mug it could be a key. 

“Neil, hun, are you alright?” Allison nudged him with her elbow.

“I’m fine,” Neil said automatically. But he felt more and more numb by the second, staring in to the coffee grounds, feeling like the world was tilting out of focus, ready to end any second. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose time like he did on the run, find himself trapped in his own head with the panic static. 

 _CRACK_.

Andrew brought his mug down on table with a resonant thunk, the china splitting in two. Neil flinched back so hard that the bruises along his ribs flared to violent life and he sank his teeth into his lower lip to stop from yelping.

Allison had no such compunction for silence and leapt to her feet with a furious curse. “The fuck, Minyard.” 

But Andrew’s focus was on Neil, every inch of him radiating with barely controlled fury. The darkness in his stare nearly took Neil’s breath away. Neil knew Andrew was dangerous, understood the kinds of things he must have done to be seen as someone who could protect Kevin from Riko, right down to whatever he did to earn the name Monster. He also knew Andrew wasn’t dangerous _to him_.

Swallowing, Neil pulled himself upright. “I’m not fine,” he admitted. “But I wasn’t trying to lie to you either.” His words were a cautious olive branch, knowing Andrew wanted honesty. “I don’t really know what I’m feeling." 

“It’s probably shock,” said Allison. “There’s a reason people don’t swim in the rivers here.”

“Maybe.” Neil had experienced plenty of near-misses with his mom though. Shock was a void, was picking up and carrying on knowing the worst had happened, was the silence after gunfire or the _shink-and-snick_ of a sharpened knife, was white bones in a backpack on the beach and waking up remembering the smell of popping flesh. It wasn’t this brittle feeling in his chest. He didn't have a name for  _this._

Andrew’s mouth gave a violent twitch, a grimace forcibly repressed. Neil felt a bolt of heat from scalp to toes – the same  _want_ that drove him to kiss Andrew even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever wanted to act on such a thing. Neil had never met someone like Andrew before, never known someone who made the world seem so solid and real – and made Neil want so desperately to be solid and real as well.

“Can we smoke in here?” Neil asked, needing a new thing to fix on.

Allison scowled. “Take it outside.”

The thought of going outside filled Neil with peculiar dread but he followed Andrew when the ferryman stood and walked from the kitchen, deliberately ignoring Allison’s frustrated grumbling.

Outside the cold was blistering, the kind that immediately sank into your bones and numbed your every nerve. It was the cold found in Chicago during winter, that arrived in a rush of howling winds and turned the earth to iron, water to stone, that bit at fingers and left frost in eyelashes. Neil tucked his hands into his armpits and shivered, padding out into the small front garden. Andrew rolled his eyes, turned back into the house, grabbed a coat from the door hook, and shoved it at Neil before stepping back into the snow and lighting up. Neil noticed he hadn’t taken a jacket for himself. He frowned, _maybe ferrymen didn't feel the cold._

Tugging the coat around his shoulders, Neil waited for Andrew to pass him a light.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Andrew replied. There was no heat in it though, no venom.

Around them the world was a tundra – flat and barren and polished white – just as it seemed from the window. Only when Neil squinted, could he spot the pencil outlines of pine trees, turned almost invisible under the weight of snow, and the slight undulations where the land dipped towards the river. He could hear the Acheron too, a low susurration in the distance. It was strangely beautiful, a far cry from the overwhelmingly endless nightmare it had been to him yesterday, so infinitely unsafe and empty.

Against the white snow, Andrew was thrown into sharp relief. He was all edges – dark lines drawn by a bold hand, more wolf than fox. Neil trailed his eyes from the heavy combat boots to Andrew’s broad chest, took in his fighter’s stance, his thick arms and shoulders, followed the line of his throat to the hard jaw, still bruised. Andrew’s skin looked so pale, his hair so soft in contrast to the brutal black of his attire. Neil wanted to reach out and run his palm across Andrew’s undercut, card his fingers through the ashy strands that caught in the breeze. 

Andrew lifted his cigarette and Neil followed the movement to his lips, watched as they parted, as wisps of smoke spilled from the corners. Neil’s tongue flicked out to wet his own mouth, the cold immediately making them sting.

“Neil,” Andrew drawled his name through a mist of smoke and condensation. “Question.  When I kissed you last night, did you want it?”

“What?” _How could Andrew even doubt that?_ Neil wanted to kiss him again now, wanted Andrew to hold him close and fill him with that intoxicating heat. Last night felt like a taste of infinity and he wanted that _again, again, again_.

“ _Yes, or no_? Did you want me to kiss you?”

A flash of angry teeth told Neil how serious Andrew was about this. Realisation dropped into Neil’s stomach, icy as the snow. _Of course, consent mattered to Andrew_  

“ _Yes,”_ Neil said. “I wanted you to kiss me. I’ve never… I don’t swing usually. I guess I never had the chance. So, I don’t understand it, and I don’t know what I’m doing, but I wanted to kiss you. I want to kiss you again.”

“You don’t swing,” Andrew’s voice was flat, his eyes blank slates.

“I was never allowed to swing. I told you what my mom did and I just never thought about anything beyond running, surviving.” Neil shrugged. “And who was I going to kiss anyway? Letting someone close, letting someone in – that was impossible when that would mean _trusting them_ not to turn me over at the first opportunity. It was easier to be alone. To tell myself I didn’t want anything. But I trust you.” _I want you,_ went unsaid but Neil heard it and he was fairly certain Andrew did too.

“You’re an idiot.”

 “So you keep saying,” Neil said, rolling his cigarette between chilly fingers and smiling. “But I still trust you. Last night was a _yes._ I didn’t change my mind. I wanted to kiss you.” A horrible thought crossed Neil’s mind. “Wait, did _you_ want to kiss me? You stopped. Did I push you too far? Did you not want that? This?” 

 “There is no this.”

 The words winded Neil, drove the air from his lungs more effectively than any fist ever could. “Oh god, Andrew. I didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so–” The cigarette fell from Neil’s grasp as his hand clawed across his mouth – horror washing through him so strongly that he thought it might burst through his skin. He’d been thinking of that kiss all day. He’d been wondering if Andrew would ever want to do it again. This was worse than the night-ghast, worse than the Acheron. The idea that he’d done to Andrew what those men had done to him. He felt his lungs stick, his throat contract to nothing.

 “Stop.” Andrew’s voice was a heavy blanket after a nightmare, something to tuck your feet into and pretend the monsters couldn’t hurt you. “That’s not what I meant. I wanted to kiss you. Come on, Pinocchio, breathe.”

 The new nickname startled Neil out of the beginnings of a fresh anxiety attack. He blinked at Andrew, brows furrowing. “Pinocchio?”

 “Well you do so wish to be a real boy. Did you prefer _rabbit_?” Andrew stepped closer, but not enough so for their personal space to mix or muddle. The stillness in his face suggested there were things he was working through inside his head, a puzzle he longed to solve.

 But Neil was trying to understand how this conversation had gone so swiftly sideways, couldn’t untangle what Andrew was saying. Neil reached up to his own throat and counted the beats of his heart. It was racing, a ragged jazz rhythm under his skin. “Can you just tell me if it was yes or no?” Neil choked on the words, refusing to let his gaze drop from Andrew’s. He needed to see this.

 “It was a yes,” Andrew said. His hand lifted, hovered in the air a safe distance from Neil’s chin. His fingers flexed and his hand dropped. Neil let out a shuddering breath. “But we need to discuss boundaries.”

 Nodding, Neil felt some of the ice in his chest start to crack. It was hard not to think of the memories they’d unwittingly shared in the river, impossible not to think about Andrew’s violent and heart-breaking treatment under the care of people who should have protected him. Reading Andrew’s posture now though, Neil realised a lot of this tension between them was likely to be exactly because of those memories – insights Neil hadn’t tried to take and Andrew most certainly hadn’t given.

 “Last night shouldn’t have happened,” Andrew said. “I need to hear you give me a yes or no that I can believe. I need to be sure that you know yes only means yes until it’s no. That if it ever changes, you stop me. I won’t be like them. I won’t let you be me.”

  _Oh, that made far too much sense._

 “I already know that,” said Neil. “I’m safe with you. I’ve known that since you gave me the _choice_ of drinking your truth tea. I’ve known that since you held my mouth closed so I wouldn’t share things didn’t want to share and you rethought your questions. Other than that first day, you’ve never hurt me. And I doubt you ever will deliberately.”

 Andrew’s deadened glare didn’t look at all reassured. Neil changed tack. “I know yes means yes until it’s no. And I want to know you’d tell me what you’re comfortable with and stop me too. I understand the need for boundaries.”

 For a second, Neil thought Andrew was going to walk away – be done with Neil’s messy afterlife – and for an agonised breath, Neil felt the world warp and wimple. He didn’t know what he’d do if Andrew turned away. Andrew existed in a grey area of his psyche that Neil barely peered into during his existence on Earth. It was new and terrifying and _all Andrew_ – the man who gave him a pendant and promised to fight, who offered him freedom and called it home. Andrew was so interfused with Neil’s ideas of safe havens and solid ground that Neil wondered how he went his whole life never knowing this feeling. He waited, unmoving, stomach threatening to drop, whilst his ferryman came to a decision.

  _I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you._ But if Andrew wanted to walk away, Neil had to let him. He couldn’t be one of those men either.

 Andrew didn’t walk away. He closed the distance between them, question in his eyes and Neil nodded.

 “Yes,” he whispered.

 Andrew pushed him back against the doorframe, aligning his body to Neil’s with only a few careful, careful inches between them. It wasn’t a rushed move. It was slow. It was controlled. Giving Neil every opportunity to pull away or back out or say no.

 He didn’t say no.

 Time stopped making sense – swirling and eddying, dizzying and dazzling as a snowblind. Their breaths were the boreas, caught between their mouths and the bite of Neil’s fingernails against his palms, the scrape of teeth against his lower lip. Neil’s eyes slid shut.

 And then there was just  _heat_ and _Andrew._

Andrew’s warm tongue sliding against his, making the rest of the world unreal, untethered, unearthly.

Andrew’s burning hands that slid to Neil’s throat.

 Andrew’s smoke tinged taste, like he’d swallowed a forest fire and now it roared inside him.

 Everything about Andrew singed away at the unerring cold, his mouth taking Neil apart piece by frozen piece.

 “Can I touch you?” Andrew drew back enough to ask.

 “Yes,” Neil half-said, half-gasped, and was about to ask the same question back when Andrew’s lips descended again.

 Pressing Neil harder into the door, Andrew kissed Neil until his blood hummed and head fizzed with static. Andrew’s hands slid beneath the borrowed coat, traced Neil’s collarbones beneath his t-shirt, pressed into the muscles of his shoulders and Neil couldn’t stop the first, small sound from spilling out – a rough, gusting moan that caught him by surprise. But Andrew’s hands felt _good_. And Neil didn’t know what to do with that. Somewhere along the line, he had forgotten what it was like to be touched without malicious intent; now all he could think was that he needed it, craved it, even if it wasn’t gentle.

Andrew’s mouth was smouldering, savage. His hands were heavy and hot. Mapping over the scars hidden beneath Neil’s clothes with his hands, Andrew’s tongue flicked at his bare skin, nipped and sucked a trail from Neil’s lips to jaw, mouthed his way to the spot beneath Neil’s ear. Where Andrew's mouth was hot, the air was still cold and it left stinging patterns over Neil's throat. Neil was sure these kisses would bruise. Part of him wanted them to. He wanted Andrew to mark him almost as much as he wanted to touch Andrew back, feel Andrew and that warmth beneath his hands. But he clenched his fists tight, held his arms against his sides – no matter how tempting, he didn’t have permission.

 As if hearing his train of thought, Andrew reached for Neil’s fists, uncurled them and laced their fingers loosely together. His fingers squeezed, eliciting a shudder from Neil and a soundless chuckle from Andrew. His amusement was a wave rolling over shingle, rushing over Neil’s earlobe. He shivered again.

 Andrew pulled him closer. “You can touch me above my shoulders.”

 Needing no further permission, Neil buried his hands in Andrew’s hair. Tugged him closer for another bruising kiss. He couldn’t remember the last time he held someone like this – wasn’t sure if he’d even ever wanted to touch someone the way he did Andrew before. Certainly, no one had made him want to map and explore like he did now. Learning Andrew felt the only important thing left in the world, like he could dedicate his life to memorising every inch, every boundary, ever touch and taste and smell, and never be done.

 They kissed and time blurred and bent until Neil pulled taut, a bow string trembling beneath Andrew’s touch. Neil’s jaw ached and he was completely breathless, melted down and dependent on Andrew to hold him upright.

 When Andrew finally pulled back, Neil tried to chase his mouth until heavy hands pushed against his chest, the warning nip against his lower lip. Even so, the retreat was the first slow and reluctant thing Neil had ever witnessed from Andrew. Blood thundering, nerves shuddering, Neil’s eyes fluttered open to find Andrew’s were molten metal: scorching to meet, impossible to hold. He dropped his forehead to Andrew’s shoulder, closed his eyes and pressed against the hard muscles there. Andrew smelt of smoke and sage, of safety and home. He could feel their matching heartbeats and couldn’t hold his blossoming smile. One hand trailed absently along the back of Andrew’s neck, the other resting by his nape. Small pinpricks ran along Andrew’s skin.

“You have goosebumps,” Neil said.

Surprise twitched through Andrew’s body. “So I do.”

They stood in the snow until their breathing calmed, wrapped closer now the kiss was over, Andrew’s arms still locked around Neil, under the coat.

When they finally went inside, Andrew stroked a finger down Neil’s throat and the pleased look that followed it made Neil grin. Andrew had left marks after all.

***

Allison didn’t miss a beat.

Over the next two days, she teased Neil mercilessly about the situation with Andrew, which turned out to be a good distraction from the sleepless nights spent listening to Riko and his court screaming around the cottage.

_“Nathaniel, don’t you know it’s rude to ignore some who just wants to help you? Learn your place, Wesninski. Do you know what people like me do to people like you in the dark? Maybe you should ask Doe.”_

Like Neil, Allison took great delight in picking apart everything Riko said, her tongue almost as barbed as his own. Andrew, who preferred to brood in silence, mostly ignored them both, though occasionally Neil spotted a flicker of humour that he found breathtaking. Neil made it his mission to drag as many of those half-smiles out of Andrew as possible, though the ferryman caught on quickly enough that Neil soon had to resort to being downright filthy in order to shock a reaction. Seeing those microexpressions flash through Andrew’s stoic facade was worth it every time, especially when it led to more of the hard, endless kisses to which Neil was fast becoming addicted. 

To make up for the lack of sleep at night, they all napped during the day. Most often, Andrew took Neil with him into his room, curled around him like they might be able to sooth each other’s jagged edges, turn them into puzzle pieces that fit just so. Andrew would sometimes kiss him before they slept, slower, needier things that left Neil squirming, stomach tight and tingling. When they woke, Andrew would smooth away more of the bruises from Riko using Abby’s salve, only to replace them with prints of his own, blooming crimson flowers on patches of unmarred flesh – his left hip, his right collarbone, along the line of his jugular. Neil loved them.

On the third night, Riko’s abuse had started up again by the time Andrew kicked Neil out of their bed with kiss-swollen lips and shaking legs, head full and syrupy like a hazy summer’s day. He tried not to imagine what Andrew was doing back in the twilight-drenched room as he ambled along the landing and down towards the kitchen. Their day had been one of hushed words and fierce kisses, Neil admiring the texture of Andrew’s hair, worshipping the contours of Andrew’s chest and upper arms. He wanted to hold onto those moments rather than let Riko worm his way between the folds of his thoughts. Complicated and unfamiliar as such soft sentimentality was to Neil, choosing memories of Andrew over promises from Riko was a no-brainer. 

“ _Don’t you think you’d look pretty with one eye like Jean? A matching set. I’ve always wanted one of those. Nathaniel, do come and join the party before I feel the urge to destroy yours.”_

Neil went straight to the freezer, looking for something cold to calm him down and knowing Andrew was a stockpile of frozen treats. Choice made, he scooched up onto the countertop and sat with legs swinging, eating straight from the tub.

 “What’s he saying tonight?” Allison said, yawning as she arrived and making tiredness look like a fashion statement. “Coffee?”

“Tea would be great,” Neil said. “And mostly the usual – so far he’s threatened to huff and puff and blow the house down, to gut you and Andrew, and promised to reward me with all the maidens in all the land. I think he’s running out of steam. Andrew, ice cream?”

Andrew’s mouth twisted as he followed them down, his contempt for Neil’s proffered pint of lemon sorbet shining in his eyes. Instead he walked around to retrieve what was left of a double chocolate fudge and caramel tub from the night before, leaning against the surface next to Neil but not quite touching. Damp-haired and clean-smelling, there was no way anyone would guess what Andrew had just been doing after tossing Neil out. 

 “The others should be here soon,” Allison said. “Gods it’ll be good to get out. There’s only so many baths a girl can take to kill time. Are you sure you won’t let me cut your hair?”

 “You already cut it,” Neil pointed out, blushing as a memory of Andrew’s appreciation of said new cut popped into his head. “And you told me not to let you lop anymore off because it’s _perfect._ ”

 Allison harrumphed. “I’m letting you get away with this because it’s true. I’m a genius and you look stunning.”

 “I look like a Peaky Blinder.”

 “That’s entirely the point, darling, especially with your bastard accent.”

 “Don't lie, you thought it was hilarious to give a gangster’s son a slogger’s cut.”

 “That too. Can I repaint your nails if sweet Riko-kins isn’t coming up with any new material for us to play with?”

 Neil sighed and held out his hand. Cabin fever was a reality. Other than the small front garden, they couldn’t leave the cottage grounds and Allison barely went that far. She put on a brave face but try as she might, Allison couldn’t hide her discomfort either. She rattled around the rooms like a child on too much sugar, bouncing from understated snark to hyperbolic frustration on an hourly basis, driving all of them a little insane. Magicking a bottle of nail paint from a pocket Neil couldn’t even see, Allison pulled her chair round to face him and took his offered hand.

 “ _My patience isn’t limitless, Nathaniel. And you won’t like it if you keep testing my authority. Have you ever heard of the Master? Has dear old Kevin told you what happens when Tetsuji Sensei gets involved? You won’t like it; I promise you that. It’ll make what I’m willing to do look like child’s play.”_

 Outside, Riko raged on and on, his words as sharp and deadly as his talons. Neil listened with one ear but knew, from the divot between his brows, that Andrew was paying attention to every turn and twist in Riko’s assault. The pattern was the same. Riko cajoled and tempted, grew angry, tried to threaten Andrew and the ferrymen, explained in great detail how he would flay the skin from Neil’s flesh or rip apart his hands or knock out his teeth and pull out his tongue – y _ou’ll be nothing but a hole, Nathaniel, a voiceless and willing slave –_ but it was nothing new. Lola told him worse and acted upon it, as had his father. Neil shivered and his hand spasmed.

 “Hold still,” Allison grumped but her eyes flicked up to his face, seeking reassurance that he was okay. It was a strange feeling, being checked on, being cared for. Neil didn’t know entirely how to react to it. Gratitude seemed inappropriate. Indebted too much like ownership. But the fuzzy, dreamlike sensation in his gut was distracting, disquieting.

 Life had never been all right. In fleeting moments on the run it had come close: in stolen hours when his mother wasn’t looking and occasional days where he could forget he was being hunted after she died. But the awfulnesss of his situation always prevailed, pervaded, even the things he longed to keep.

 Death, on the other hand, was turning out okay. If you ignored the mayhem that was Riko and his court’s apparent obsession with Neil, if you focused on the Foxes and their offer of protection, of camaraderie and freedom – if you focused on Andrew – death was pretty good.

  _“Nathaniel. Nathaniel. Sweet boy. Precious son.”_ Riko’s voice was an awful, eldritch sound, ancient and withered and cruel. “Don’t you understand there are worse things than being by my side? Your dear daddy will do something dastardly if you don’t fall in line. Maybe he’ll pull you back to the living, pick up where he left off. He did it once before, don’t you remember? And what might he do to you next time?”

  _Could he do that?_ Neil’s chest tightened and he glanced at Andrew, who was already looking back at him. The hot iron on his shoulder burned. Riko had told him that his father had killed him once before as a child, that was how they’d met, why his mother had taken him and ran.

Andrew shook his head imperceptibly. It could be a trick. They couldn’t take anything Riko said at face value.  

“To be honest, I don’t know what more they could do to me,” Neil said, deciding to deflect. “It’d take some feat of imagination to come up with something worse than listening to Riko all night long.”

 Allison laughed, though it didn’t linger. She blew on his wet nails, which were now a glossy purple. “I don’t know, you could have to listen to Kevin. Give me your other hand.”

Her words didn’t entirely relieve the worry, but the attempt was enough to dispelling some of the sensation that Riko was circling round and round in a narrowing gyre with Neil at the centre like carrion. Behind him, the voices of the hollow men were a chorus, arrhythmic and feverish.

“Why does he even need us? I know the hollows are what control the night-ghast but why does Riko need that power?” The question had bothered Neil for a while now, none of the answers quite sating his curiosity.

“He’s been here a long time,” Allison replied, pensive like she’d never really thought about it before. “I think if he ever had reasons, they’ve probably been forgotten.”

“I have a theory,” Neil added a beat later. “He’s the castaway right? The second son born solely to keep Kengo’s chosen heir alive. I think he does it to feel in control. To feel like he could have been as powerful as his brother.”

“That sounds suspiciously sympathetic,” Allison said. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him after what he’s done.”

“God, no,” Neil shook his head. “Plenty of people have shitty families without becoming monsters.”

Andrew snorted. “If you think you’re speaking from experience, I’ve got a hard truth for you, rabbit.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a delight.” Neil took a sip of tea.

“A delightful asshole,” Allison said. “I guess Andrew would be the expert on that.”

Neil’s tea caught in his throat and went straight up his nose as he began to choke. Two days of kissing Andrew did not prepare him for jokes about _sex_ from _Allison_.

And apparently, they didn’t amuse Andrew either, his mouth was once again thin, body ready for a fight. Neil nudged his knee against Andrew’s side in reassurance. It still called an end to the conversation, reducing Allison to small talk and Neil to half-answers until dawn began to creep over the horizon, sky turning inky and watercoloured as the sun crept her slow way upwards and lit the snow pink. Riko’s army melted away in the morning light, their voices becoming hushed and low until only the king himself could be heard, his threats glimmering in the morning shine.

Tiredness made them all irritable and when the last shadows pulled away from the cottage, Neil slumped against Andrew, only relaxing when the familiar weight of his hand dropped to his neck. They had to wait a little longer before any of them were brave enough to go outside to smoke.

The air was fresh, biting cold and blessedly silent like the world was holding its own breath. The sunlight was almost impossibly bright, reflecting on the frost-dipped landscape. _Dazzling_ , Neil thought, looking at Andrew’s profile against the blue and white. Gold eyes slid to him in amusement.

“Can you feel that, rabbit?” Andrew asked.

“Feel what?”

Andrew jerked his chin at the horizon as Allison burst out of the front door and pelted towards the garden gate.

“They’re here! They made it!”

Neil frowned. He couldn’t see anything but boundless white. He looked to Andrew, confused.

His ferryman stepped forward and tapped the pendant on Neil’s chest. “Pay attention to this." 

Wrapping his hand around the gold disk, Neil tried to do as he was told, focusing on the warm metal. A second passed before he detected it: a low hum, a steady vibration, a cracking-crunching sound like footsteps through the snow.

A smile unfurled over Neil’s mouth, he could feel Matt Boyd’s warmth, Dan’s fierceness, and Renee’s needle-like vibrancy, coming closer and closer. Could sense Wymack too – his otherworldliness, his godhood – and below that, a protectiveness torrenting like a river. They were close. But closer still was Andrew –

Gasping, Neil reached out blindly, finding Andrew’s arms reaching for him at the same moment. He kept his eyes shut, letting everything Andrew was pour into him: the ferocity and the vigilance, the savagery and the tenderness, the raw power and honed control. 

Blinking his eyes open, Neil’s smile grew wider. “You’re amazing.”

“Shut up,” Andrew said, “Yes or no?” 

“Always yes.” Neil doesn’t finish what he was going to say, Andrew’s mouth was on his, laying kiss after kiss on his lips, on his nose, his forehead, brow, temple, jaw, each one surprisingly soft and fond.

Too soon, Andrew drew back and pushed Neil’s face back towards the horizon. Trekking through the snow were four bundles of bright orange scarves and hats, their pace speedy given the inclement ground conditions. Neil longed to sink back into Andrew’s embrace, but the arrival of the Foxes was important. This meeting with Wymack was important.

Allison ran the last few metres into Renee’s arms, lifting the smaller girl off her feet and sweeping her into a kiss. Their laughter rang in the morning air, their joy so obvious it felt tangible. Following behind, Matt and Dan hugged Neil in greeting and Matt offered Andrew a fist bump, which was pointedly ignored. Wymack came last, gruff and lumbering on a leg that seemed stiff in the cold. He acknowledged Andrew and Allison, but his attention was on Neil.

“I hear you want to take up my offer,” Wymack said.

“Yessir,” Neil said, throat sticking. “I’ll understand if you don’t want the trouble though.”

Andrew shifted beside him, annoyance clear in his eyes. Neil ignored him.

“If you tell me to leave, I’ll go. I get that you already have Kevin to look after and he’s your son… you don’t owe me anything.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Andrew began to but Wymack held up a hand.

“I made you an offer, I stand by it like I’ve stood by it for all of these idiots. Tell me what you want. Talk to me.”

“I want to be a Fox.” Neil felt that with every fibre of his being, every sinew and muscle, every artery and vein. “I know it could be difficult with Riko but I want this. I want to be Neil Josten, ferryman, Fox.”

“Good,” Wymack said. “Give us your hand.”

Neil offered both, palm up, and Wymack held his own hands over the top with about two inches above.

“This will feel strange but I need you to let it happen. Accept it.”

Neil swallowed, nodded, did not look at Andrew or the others who he knew were watching closely. He kept his attention on Wymack, who in the first thump of a heartbeat seemed to transform, mutate, the air around him turning to a shimmering syrup like haze. There was only one word for the feeling that came next: _magic_.

Magic radiated like heat off the edges of Wymack’s form, and when Neil met his eyes they were bestial, wild, full of power. It rippled through Neil and he stopped breathing, sure he would be obliterated by one wrong inhalation. Words in another language, low and rich as smoke, poured from Wymack’s tongue, the pulsing, radiating energy building with each syllable. Stronger and stronger the power grew, becoming an impossible pressure that sizzled around them, melting the snow at their feet.

A _ccept it_ , Neil heard Wymack saying.

 _Do you want to be a Fox_? Andrew’s voice rang in his head.

 _Don't you dare do this Nathaniel. You are alive. You are mine_ , Riko's cracked voice screamed through him, circling close and cruel.

Neil trembled. He was not going to let Riko in, not under the cold eyed sun, not in the swirl of this magic. He focused on his hands, on the sensation of being weighted down by a force heavier than gravity. He listened for the voices of the Foxes in his head. _Let it happen. What will it take for you to stay? It’s a simple question. Yes or no?_

 _Yes._ Neil felt the words in his heart, felt them rise to meet Wymack’s magic. _I will never be a Raven. I am a Fox_

 As if he cast the spell himself with those words, the world shattered into coloured lights and Neil was breaking into pieces with them.   

Rising on the crest of the magic was like seeing leaves for the first time – like all Neil had ever seen was the rough shape of things, the shadows on the cave wall, but now everything around him was crystal clear, the purest form of themselves. _There_ was snow slipping between blades of grass, _there_ glinted pinpricks of sun in the snow, _there_ the light caught in rainbow colours along the rolling hills, _there_ rose the spindling skeleton pines and the dark black leaves heavy with frost. And _here_ were the Foxes, bright and burning and ethereal. For a moment, Neil was sure he knew everything about them – everything they were, everything they would become – and then the feeling was gone. The world blew into prismatic high-definition, surrounding them all with a moonbroch aura so beautiful his eyes burned. He soared on the edge of Wymack’s power. It was too much to take in, too much not to open himself up to the chance. He needed it to stop. Never wanted it to end.

Heat on his face told Neil he was crying but he didn’t feel sad. He felt shaky and strange, dimly aware of reality settling back into place. His hands were at his sides. Wymack had stepped away, looking human and rough around the edges once more.

“Wow,” Matt said. “I don’t think ours was anywhere near so intense.”

Dan agreed. "Definitely not. Have you ever seen anything like that, Andrew?"

There was no reply from Andrew and Neil couldn't move to see if he gave a non-verbal answer.

“Neil, are you back with us?” Renee asked.

Neil wanted to say yes but couldn’t find his tongue. He shook, his nerves felt raw, his whole body numb. He was still alive. He was not fine. Nothing was ever going to be easy. But now he was a Fox. There was Andrew. Neil had something to live for – to stay dead for – and as the magic vanished into the waste land, it terrified him.

Andrew paused right beside him. There was an unbearable, fragile beat as Neil waited for Andrew to shatter the quiet. But it was as though he knew words were too much for Neil, that if he spoke Neil would tap out, would run and never stop. So Andrew said nothing. All Neil could hear was the gentle sound of his breathing and the unspoken question. Neil nodded, once, jerkily, his body still shaking. Slowly, Andrew’s arms wrapped around Neil from behind. Neil closed his eyes and leant back against the hard chest, feeling unreal.

He was standing in the underworld with Andrew and his arms were strong and supportive, exactly the way needed. Whispered curiosity from Matt and Dan met his ears but he paid them no mind, let himself be held.

 _Neil Josten. Twenty-one(ish) years old. Sort of dead. Fox. Ferryman._  

Neil had never felt so alive. Never felt so real.

Because… he was. Of course he was. And as Andrew’s hands gentled his waist, Neil didn’t make a sound. And as Andrew’s stubble rasped his face, Neil didn’t make a sound. He didn’t need to. He was solid already and Andrew was telling him so – in touches and imprints of fingers and mouths sliding against each other – the truth was in his gestures, every motion part of a promise.

That Neil could have this. _They could have this._

Later, in the day’s silence, whilst the others plotted and planned their way back through the Valley, Neil lay with Andrew’s hand tucked under his pillow. The disquieting sensation in his chest had returned. But now he knew its name. 

_Hope._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in this one folks - caught a horrible lurgy but hope you enjoyed this one!
> 
> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	13. goner (somebody catch my breath)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Riko was an unstable force ready to go radioactive, a creature that could be as meticulous and strategic as he was demonic and feral. He might be a despotic madman but he was smart, wily as any trickster and a glutton for cruelty – and Andrew knew that rage brought the best out in the raven king, made him sharper, more unpredictable. 
> 
> Andrew slid his eyes to Neil, sandwiched between a well-meaning Matt and impatient Allison. He looked tiny against Matt, rumpled against Allison, but there was a new glow around Neil that made him look even sharper than usual, even more like an emphasis in the middle of a sentence."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the twelfth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end.
> 
> TW: LOTS of violence. Several characters have a horrendous time in this chapter. 
> 
> There's also a lot of lemony zest and oh smut. We've hit the smut. Skip the end if you're not into that. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter twelve : goner (somebody catch my breath)**  

 _I notice you when you're noticing me_  
Breaking the habit, you're watching me sleep  
Oh, give me some time, let me learn how to speak  
I'm a maze to you. 

 _\- Manchester Orchestra_  

 

***

Andrew was man who liked detail. He didn’t make decisions lightly. He didn’t rush in where angels feared to tread. To anyone who bothered to look, he might seem like someone driven by instinct and violence, but his was the viciousness born of training and preparedness. When it came down to it, he was a minutiae man, the _every last detail_ man. Planning Tilda’s death, he spent months working out all of the variables and risks, how to weaken the brakes a little at a time, how to ensure Aaron was never the one in danger, how to give himself the best chance of surviving. There was very little he wouldn’t plan for – best- and worst-case scenarios – with his near perfect memory making it easy to hold all the information necessary.

Preparing for their return trip across the Valley with Neil as a Fox, however, was not just a matter of thinking around corners and expecting trouble. Riko was an unstable force ready to go radioactive, a creature that could be as meticulous and strategic as he was demonic and feral. He might be a despotic madman but he was _smart_ , wily as any trickster and a glutton for cruelty – and Andrew knew that rage brought the best out in the raven king, made him sharper, more unpredictable. 

Andrew slid his eyes to Neil, sandwiched between a well-meaning Matt and impatient Allison. He looked tiny against Matt, rumpled against Allison, but there was a new glow around Neil that made him look even sharper than usual, even more like an emphasis in the middle of a sentence.

“When Riko realises what you’ve done, he’s going to retaliate,” Allison was telling Neil.

Neil shrugged. “Can he do anything about it though?” 

Matt looked unhappy for a second and nodded. “Being a Fox is like being a Raven, in that it’s power comes from your free will, your _choice_ to become a ferryman. But if Riko thinks he can trick you or hurt you into getting to you – he will try.”

“Let him try,” Neil said. “He’ll get tired of losing eventually.” 

“I’m not sure bravado is going to help us here,” Dan said, returning to the table with a cup of tea for Neil and coffee for the rest of them, even Andrew.

“It’s not bravado. I just figure fear isn’t going to help any of us either. Riko can hurt me, can attack us, but he has nothing over me that can make me say yes,” Neil explained. Andrew enjoyed how Neil’s cheeks tinged pink on _yes._ “Andrew said it would take more than that anyway, to undo Wymack’s magic.”

“Coach is the original ferryman, he has a hell of a lot more power than Riko,” agreed Allison.

“Doesn’t mean we can underestimate him,” added Dan. “He feeds off our worst fears, and other than you and Kevin, his Perfect Court is pretty much all in place.”

Neil hummed. “Maybe not entirely though. Before Allison arrived, Jean was the one who let me know they didn’t have Andrew. He lifted whatever the illusion was to show me it was just bones and rags.”

Dan and Matt looked stunned, Allison just rather amused. “And you didn’t think to mention this before?” said Allison.

 Neil had the foresight to look apologetic. “I kind of forgot. My brain feels so much clearer now than before.”

“That’s the magic settling in. The comedown from the change is pretty good,” Allison said, then looked scandalised and turned wide apologetic eyes to Matt.

“My addiction issues were a long, long time ago,” Matt said, waving off her concern. “And you’re right, there are other cool things about the magic’s impact on you. If you can’t already, you’ll start to feel the other souls of the dead too, like a tickle in your head.”

Frowning in concentration, Neil’s gaze seemed to turn inward. “Nothing like that yet.”

“You’ll know when you know. That’s when you’ll start being sent on ferryman duty.”

“And after a while, you’ll also start seeing what the Rift looks like to the other souls you help over. It’s kind of the best bit, getting a glimpse of what’s waiting for people on the Other Side,” added Dan.

“You’re such a nerd,” Allison said. “The best bit is obviously the shapeshifting.”  

Neil laughed beside them, turning his face slightly into his shoulder as if embarrassed. The sound was soft and surprised and shadowed by shyness, like Neil had discovered happiness for the first time in his life and wasn’t sure if he was allowed to show it.  

 _He’s beautiful_ , Andrew thought, and felt his resolution steel. He would never let anyone hurt this man. Least of all Riko Moriyama.

“To return to the point, that’s interesting about Jean. Maybe Riko’s control isn’t quite as perfect as we thought,” Dan said, tone thoughtful. “Either the hollow men aren’t as lost as we thought, or maybe Riko’s hold on them can be loosened.”

“Alright lagabouts,” Wymack’s rough voice called through the cottage. “Y’all ready to go?” 

Renee and Wymack appeared in the kitchen with noses pink from the cold and a selection of weapons to be passed out among the Foxes. Renee spun a narrow blade in her hands before handing that one to Neil, who balked, jaw clicking shut.

Knowing Neil’s reticence about knives, Andrew hovered a hand over Renee’s proffered blades and shook his head. “Neil is already armed.” Andrew made sure of that himself. 

Renee smiled and took the knife back, tucking it into a sheath on her leg. In any case, there was something much better to distract Neil with; Andrew jerked his head over to the case Wymack opened on the table. 

Neil’s eyes went wide, pupils dilating into dark puddles of _want._  

“Are those… exy racquets?” 

Matt grinned at Neil. “Sure are. Dan and I came up with the idea, since we both played professionally and had no real experience with knives before we got here.”

Dan picked up a stick with a garishly orange shaft, twirling it around her head in perfectly controlled but vicious strokes; her mouth curled with satisfaction. “I’m so glad we thought to keep spares out here.”

“Do you want to try one, Neil?”

It was clear from Neil’s face that _yes, yes, he wanted an exy racquet._ Andrew reached forward, plucking the heaviest one from the bag – a goalie stick, with the wide and double weighted head (unfortunately also in nose-bleed bright orange). He felt the familiar heft of it, remembered days at juvie and months at Palmetto State, the roar of the goal as it buzzed red, the stink of bodies in a plexiglass box, the men and women he had the misfortune to call teammates. Andrew looked up to meet Neil’s eyes, unsurprised to see them dark and intense and fascinated by Andrew’s grip on the racquet. Andrew smirked. 

“I think maybe today I should stick with what I know?” Neil’s reply came out as a question, and more than a bit regretful.

 _Junkie_ , Andrew thought, spinning the racquet up and across his shoulders. _But maybe today was a day for a long-range weapon as well as the usual knives._

“You know, Dan and I would be happy to train with you when we’re all back in Fox Tower,” Matt said, clearly spotting Neil’s miserable look as the rest of the racquets were stowed away. A look that just as quickly turned to the world’s brightest smile at Matt’s offer.

“Really?” Neil asked. “I played a tiny bit as a child. Little leagues. And about two months in high school. But I was always moving and never really got a chance to learn properly.”

Matt grinned. “Of course, Dan was a world class coach. We’ll whip you into shape. Maybe we can even persuade Minyard to join in.”

Andrew shot Matt a withering look. There was no way he was stepping foot anywhere near an exy court again. No amount of cajoling was going to change that.

“Andrew? Would you join?” Neil turned to Andrew, eyes impossibly large and the shade of sunshine through a glacier. 

Andrew’s heart stuttered. _Absolutely not_ , was on the tip of his tongue. “I’ll think about it,” came out instead. _For fates sake,_ he clenched the racquet more tightly and pushed down the urge to swing at Neil. But honestly, the guy was turning him into an idiot.

Leaving the cottage was strange. Inside its small perimeter, the world felt safe, strange, like it was contained in a bubble where nothing could really touch them; Riko’s taunts might have been loud and cruel but they were ineffectual against the warmth and protection of the final foxhole. As soon as they stepped beyond the gate, however, Andrew was reminded of the fickleness of the waste land – the wind picked up and began to whine, the snow deepened to their shins, the land beneath becoming uneven and slippery underfoot – clearly it was picking up on the group’s unease, their lingering timidity when it came to facing the Valley and the entirety of Riko’s hoard.

That, and below the wind and the rumbling River Acheron, purred a dark and constant anger from the Valley.

 _The court knew about Neil’s transformation_ , Andrew was sure of it. There was no way Riko didn’t feel the shift when Coach’s magic took hold of Neil. Not with so much power, so much light. No doubt to Riko it was like adding insult to injury – not only had the Court failed to take Neil on his own during their flight across the waste land but now Neil had beaten him yet again, making a choice that put him firmly out of easy reach. Riko would be determined to make Neil pay for that arrogance.

Wymack spearheaded their troupe, Renee and Allison bringing up the rear whilst Andrew and Neil were flanked by Matt and Dan. Andrew could tell that being hemmed in put Neil on edge, but he wasn’t going to change the set-up, not when this put as many people as possible between Neil and the night-ghast.

Cresting the top of the first hill, they paused to overlook the sweeping landscape, shimmering for miles and miles in every direction other that the one they needed to take where the black line of the Valley ran like an angry dash across a white page.

Yet, in flashes and flickers, small blinking lights flickered out of the darkness and rolled towards them, down sloping gradients and up winding vales.  

Neil gasped. “Are those souls?”

Andrew nodded. Those were the pulsing hearts of other ferrymen and guides, urging the dead on to safety, just as the Foxes did. It was odd; Andrew didn’t usually notice them. But now he felt like a pebble in the ocean, pushing against the tide. His every instinct told him to turn, to join their pilgrimage back towards the Rift, but he fought it. Now was not his time to cross over. Not until Aaron was safe. He looked at Neil, was surprised to see he was smiling. 

 _Or maybe I’ll never cross, not while Neil is stuck here._ That thought didn’t fill him with so much dread as it should.

“Come on, we need to make the Valley in good time so we have time to reach the City before nightfall.” Andrew said, starting forward again.

“I know,” Neil said quietly, smile lingering, butterfly-light.

As they descended first one hill and then another, a thin veil of mist lifted from the snow, hovering over the waste land. It hid the path from view and worsened the chill to something damp and clinging. The group moved closer together, knowing at any minute visibility could worsen. Neil’s knuckles grazed against Andrew’s, and he answered the implicit question by curling his fingers around Neil’s. They were not being separated this time; Andrew was not going to wake up again with Neil not there beside him.

 The closer the Valley grew, the less snow remained, which was both a blessing and a curse. The hoary weather turned them ice into stagnant pools of water and left them squelching through mud. Allison eyed it distastefully, though Matt and Dan did their best to laugh off the slurping wet around their ankles, helping each other to unstick their boots and using their racquets to pull Renee out when she sank a little too deep to tug herself out. Neil took the terrain in stride, no doubt having dealt with worse on the run.

 But no one’s good humour could last when they finally saw the narrow fissure leading into the Valley.

 Mist parting before them, this entrance to Valley of the Shadow of Death was far from the grassy lull at the other end – it was little more than a crack in the towering cliffs, a cleft so dark it looked like an abyss. Andrew usually made this trip alone and it never became any less horrific, any less of a trauma exacted upon trauma. He knew the others would feel the same. As they finally stepped into the long, craggy shadows, the day’s biting cold became Baltic, setting a chill into their bones.

 “Stick together,” Coach ordered. “Do not try for heroics. Let’s get through this and celebrate at the other end, together.”

 Andrew’s heart thudded heavily, his hand tightening on Neil. They both drew their knives. Neil’s eyes met his, determination in his jaw, murder in his quickly flashed grin. _This was the survivor,_ the man who’d outlived his mother, outrun his father, outthought Riko Moriyama. _This was the man who had it in him to be a Fox_.

 “Stay with me,” Andrew said, keeping his voice low.

 Neil nodded, stroked his thumb over the back of Andrew’s hand. “Always.”

 The Valley felt like a tomb. Creeping around the jagged entrance, Andrew blinked his eyes into focus, the gloom making what was actually cavernous seem crushingly claustrophobic. The mist didn’t abate here, it seemed thicker, stickier, heavy enough for them to almost wade through – and it was growing darker too, ashy and grey.

 “What is this?” Matt whispered.

 “I’m not sure we want to know,” replied Allison, tightly.

 Andrew knew though, as did Wymack, he recognised the tiredness in the old god’s face. There was no pity for the innumerable souls whose destruction must have poisoned the mist, only a weariness that spoke of years of loss, millennia of guiding and hoping and sometimes failing in the task of ferryman.

 The darkness took an immediate toll on the Foxes, not even Matt and Dan’s brightly coloured coats or Renee’s scarf, were doing much to help. This wasn’t an illusion, it was Riko’s stronghold and within a few metres, Andrew could sense the stirring night-ghast, their ghoulish language of clicks and hisses reverberating off stone.

 But none of the Foxes were unprepared. They’d planned for this. _Andrew_ had planned for this.

 “Go,” Dan gave the order, lifting her racquet and throwing a ball of white light as far forward as she could.

 The light burst in front of them, illuminating the cliffsides and though nowhere near as powerful as _lux aeterna_ , the night-ghast reacted as if it was – clearly expecting the Foxes to use the same tactics as Allison had days before.

 Bursting into a run, Andrew and Neil careened forward with Allison and Renee at their heels. Wymack shifted in a flicker of an eye and bounded in fox form along the ground – but as the first night-ghast swooped downwards, he lunched upwards, jaws snapping. The howl from the monster was deafening but Wymack didn’t let go, shaking the creature until it burst into black smoke.

 The next few moments were a blur of night-ghast and racquets and Wymack’s snarling maw. Matt was a fearsome thing, wielding his racquet like an assault weapon – his body taking on a size and strength that Andrew was reluctantly glad to have on his side. With Dan beside him, they were the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object – only this time the object wasn’t so fixed. As they batted away the demons, Wymack caught them, snapped at their flailing bodies and sent them back from whence they came.

 They kept running – Andrew wasn’t as fast as Neil but was more used to the terrain, navigating them over the rocky surface, using the loose gravel to their advantage. When Neil stumbled, he pulled him upright. When Neil ducked a night-ghast, Andrew was the one who lashed out with his knife, slicing through the creature’s chest and splattering them both with black, oily blood.

  _That was too close._ “Cover me,” he said to Neil.

 Sliding the knife back to its sheath, Andrew was momentarily unarmed. Neil’s grip was tight around his fingers, their feet pounding as Andrew’s free hand grappled with the straps around his shoulders. He drew the racquet from his back and gave it a masterful swing. It had been years since he held one of these, decades since he played, but _god, did it feel powerful_.

 The problem was the night-ghast were fast. And Andrew was increasingly aware of the absence of the hollow men and Riko. _Where were they?_

 Around them the night-ghast howled and screeched, the Foxes’ assault battering them from the path, defying them again and again and again. Renee leapt over Allison, rolling across her back in a manoeuvre that sent two of the night-ghast screaming into the stalactites with agonised shrieks. It gave them precious seconds to regroup, Allison throwing a handful of golden powder over them all, filling them with warmth and enough energy to keep going.

 But even with the touch of Abby’s healing magic, Matt was developing a limp and Wymack was only one fox in a barrel of ravens, the only one who could leave permanent damage other than Allison with her pack of magic tricks and the knife Andrew carried from the Butcher’s house. They needed something else to maintain their advantage.

 Good thing Andrew prepped thoroughly. 

 “Change up!” Andrew gave the command and the Foxes moved – Matt dropped back, Allison taking over the spot at Neil’s side; Dan pushed round to the front alongside Wymack. It left Andrew’s flank open, but the racquet gave him reach to keep the monsters away from Neil.

They were deep into the Valley now, too far in to double back, too far from the other side for any light to filter from up ahead. This was the heartland of Riko’s kingdom, if they followed the tunnels off to the sides, they’d find themselves dropping into Evermore, into Riko’s stolen kingdom and Kevin’s former prison. Andrew had only been there once, he had no intention of going there again.

With the new formation, Andrew was able to throw Renee the Butcher’s knife and she snatched it deftly from the air, flipping head over hands to catch the next night-ghast in the throat. Its cries curdled in the air, desperate and strange. Andrew swiped at the next horde, battling their claws, beating back their slathering beaks. From the swish and smack behind him, Andrew gathered Matt was just as successful. Thus, began a new dance, like the world’s most violent game of exy, with Dan and Andrew and Matt battering the night-ghast one of two directions, to Renee or Wymack, in an arrhythmic pattern to keep the monsters off-guard. The Foxes were gaining ground. Neil was able to keep his head down and away from their claws. Andrew’s plan was working. 

That was when they heard the laughter, the horrible, inhuman humour of the hollow men. They’d reached the centre of the Valley. They’d reached Riko’s favourite hunting ground. Exactly as predicted.

One minute there was only the demonic fray of the night-ghast, the next broken faces stared out from behind flashing wings and smoky attacks. Williams and Jenkins, their spider bodies and twisted grins, Moreau with his shattered skull and broken jaw – all of them wore a smudgy gauntness that made it hard to look at them. Andrew knew Riko had to be close by. But they needed to be certain. 

Jenkins lifted an arm to the sky and an unkindness of night-ghast congealed into a dark, throbbing ball above his head, morphing and twisting and bubbling. With a wild grin, Williams followed suit. Neil’s eyes met his. 

 _Not yet_. Andrew shook his head. _It wasn’t time._  

That didn’t mean Allison couldn’t pull one of her better tricks. One minute she was behind them, the next she was launching herself above their heads, vaulting with two sharp beams in her hands – stilettos of white light that sliced straight through the boiling ball of demons above Jenkins.

It was a perfect shot, the night-ghast shrieked and scattered. Running towards Allison, Renee called out to offer a platform to launch her next attack.

But Renee didn’t make it in time. Williams thrust his hand towards Allison and the night-ghast lanced towards her, a canon-ball of blackness that sent her flying through the air. Renee had just enough time to leap, to use her body to cushion Allison’s as it tumbled through the air towards the craggy cavern floor. There was a sickening crack as they met stone, splitting one of the boulders with the force of their fall.

The hollow men were cackling again, raising their arms to once more build their attack. Riko’s creaking laugh lay beneath all the noise. But there was still no physical sign of the raven king and Andrew knew they were running out of time.

Neil lurched towards where Allison and Renee were staggering to their feet but Andrew held him back, holding firm even when Neil turned wild and horrified eyes towards him.

“Stay in formation, they’ll be ok,” Dan barked as Andrew pulled Neil back into place. But without the two other Foxes, the group was off-kilter, out-of-sync.

 _Where was Riko? They needed him here for this to work_.

Riko’s laughter grew and grew, more and more of the hollow men beginning to emerge from the gloom and hidden tunnels with their beetle-shell eyes. The sound of their mutilated mirth sent chills through Andrew.

 _“Welcome, welcome, welcome.”_ The hollow men were legion with one unified voice, an echo of their maker’s. “ _So predictable. Doe. Doe. Did you think did you think you think you could thwart thwart thwart me?”_

Cold wind raged around them, driven by the unseen king. The Foxes were surrounded on all sides, out of the corner of Andrew’s eye he could see everyone was losing momentum: Allison and Renee were struggling to fight their way back through to the rest of them; Wymack shifted back and forth between fox and man, trying to push and bite and pull and snarl a path through the thicket of nightmares; Matt was wincing and staggering with every breath, a night-ghast having pushed though his defence and burst through his chest; Dan was still swinging but she was distracted by her husband’s pain. They needed time to regroup.

 " _Foolish little boy, Nathaniel. Foolish, foolish boy.”_ But the echoes were becoming less, the taunts more concise.

 Darting eyes took in the crags, the stalactites, the shadows. Andrew needed to fix this. _Wait. The stalactites._

 Andrew spared a glance at Neil. “Matt, keep hold of him.”

 Andrew pushed Neil back against the former defender, registering the yelp of his name, the thick arm that wrapped around Neil’s torso to hold him back.

  _Let this be enough._

 Legs pounding faster than they’d ever gone before, Andrew sprinted towards the valley wall, threw himself upwards, bounced higher, higher, almost running up the side of the cliff. He raised his racquet high, pushed off once more… and flipped off the wall, tearing through thin air.

 For a second, Andrew was flying – feet metres off the ground, Neil’s too-bright eyes staring in horror as he speared overhead – time was on pause as Andrew drew his arm back and javelined his racquet towards the clutch of razor-sharp stalactites above Williams’ and Moreau.

 Then he was falling.

 Falling fast and there was no river at the bottom to catch him this time.

 Hurtling towards the earth, he saw the flat head of his racquet smash into the first stalactite, then the next, ripping through rocks as if they were nothing. The scream against stone was deafening: the very edges of the Valley seemed to warble and wave as the crags began to follow Andrew down towards the ground, towards the night-ghast and the hollow men.

 Andrew struck stone.

 His breath vanished. His jaw slammed into his collar bone, his teeth bit into his cheek. The tang of metal filled his mouth. Wrapping arms around his head, he curled tight to protect his skull and ribs as his body jounced across the floor. Something gave in his shoulder, a pop followed by numbness.

 But this was nothing compared to the thunderous stones falling on the night-ghast. The noise was the crack and rumble of an electric storm, was a thousand furious ravens skittering through the air, trying and failing to escape the debris. From behind his arms, Andrew could see the bodies of at least one hollow man crushed and twitching beneath spiked stone like a moth under a needle.

 More and more rocks fell. Andrew scanned the ground for the tell-tale orange of his racquet but couldn’t spy it. He also wasn’t sure he could move yet. Lying curled over himself, Andrew let the juddering reverb roll through him.

 “So pathetic, was that all you had?” Riko’s croon was as smug as it was cruel.

 Andrew felt, rather than saw, Riko’s presence at his head. Felt the despair and the cold and the tickle of a thousand nightmares he never wanted to revisit. His determination sharpened and he pushed himself up onto his arms. Riko’s boot kicked him back down.

 The king was here.

  _Game. Set. Match._  

 “ _Neil_ , now!” Andrew croaked, praying he could be heard.

 His heart beat frantic and fearful, and then there was _light_. Andrew lurched to his feet, doubled over with fresh pain, half-blinded by the spots in his eyes, but he could see Neil.

 Neil, who held high the last of their _lux aeterna_ , small but enough and blazing brighter and more brilliantly than anything Andrew had ever seen. _Radiant. Beautiful. So goddamn alive._

The ravens fled, the hollow men screamed. Andrew reached for his knives and the final fight for freedom began.

 Andrew’s distraction had been enough to let the other’s regroup. It was just Andrew now on the outside though he wasn’t far behind and he could see now how close the edges of the Valley were – they were so close and the light was so powerful and _it had worked, it had worked_ , _the Foxes would make it._

 Only Neil was turning back, twisting free of Matt. Neil was running, hair lit up like a flame, eyes fixed on Andrew.

“Neil, no,” Renee snatched at him but was too slow.

Neil was half way to Andrew when the light began to flicker. Andrew could see the focus, the fury; matched it with his own. _The idiot._

The light became a strobe, and in stolen flashes of darkness the ravens tore downwards, flying closer and closer to Andrew. They weren’t targeting Neil, they were forcing Andrew to dodge – pushing him back, pushing him away from the Foxes and back into the cave. They knew Neil would follow.

 _Just a little further_ , the light needed to last _just a little longer_.

Scrambling, Andrew sliced out with his knives, but a night ghast swept through his chest, made his lung seize with fear and remembered pain, caused his fingers to spasm and the blade to slip from his grip.

He saw Neil’s eyes lift to something behind him, widening horror, and Andrew felt it like punch to his stomach. He began to turn, saw the rotting face of Jean Moreau above him, his talons raised. Andrew flung up his arm, knowing it would do nothing.

_THWUMP. THWUCK._

Two silver knives thudded into the hollow man’s chest, sending him crumbling to the ground and breaking control over the night-ghast.

For a second the air cleared, Andrew was free and Neil was a grim-faced avenger, staring down the rest of the hollow men down. His knives were gone but the _lux aeterna_ lit him up like a spark ready to set off a forest fire. Andrew picked up his knives and rose to his feet.

So did Moreau. But slowly, lurching, and Andrew had to wonder if he was resisting Riko’s orders like he had for Neil. 

“Get them.” Riko cooed over.   

 _Get them. Get them. Get them,_ chanted the hollow men.

Scrambling forward, Andrew grabbed Neil’s hand as soon as he was in touching distance and they pivoted, moving as one. Andrew yanked Neil close, pushed a knife into his empty hand and seized another for himself. The _lux aeterna_ was still dimming, flashing in and out of focus. They had time. Just not a lot.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Andrew said, more like snapped, as they ran.

“I told you, I’m not losing you,” Neil retorted.

Blood smeared Neil’s face, but he was all but glowing when the light caught him, skin flushed and eyes bright, running with Andrew like it was them against the universe. Andrew wished the time was better but they were sprinting, stumbling, tripping over the uneven ground towards the Foxes and freedom. Every step reverberated through Andrew’s aching body. But up ahead there was daylight, a narrow slice of blue in the darkness. _So close_.

The _lux aeterna_ gave a final impossible throb and dimmed to embers.

With a beat of wings, with a rush of frost-stained wind, Riko stood in front of them, hideous as Andrew had ever seen him with that awful beak protruding from the wrench-wide human mouth. Skidding on the pebbled earth, Andrew and Neil went to swerve around the raven king, but he raised his arms wide and a curtain of night-ghast descended, stopping their path.

 _We’re going to have to fight Riko_ , Andrew realised, anger bursting along his spine. The thought of facing down the court when he was this worn out was a terrifying prospect. Andrew had used up all his energy, burned through all his fumes, was only still going out of spite and self-preservation. His back and ribs were burning, his legs were hot with exertion. His hands and wrists were numb from cold. He drew a ragged gasp that did nothing for him, tried to clench his knife tight but felt his grip tremble. Neil shot him a panicked look and squeezed Andrew’s hand. They couldn’t give up now. 

“Your countdown begins now, Nathaniel,” he said, voice hissing and whistling through his broken mouth. “Daddy’s going to know something’s wrong very soon and then we’ll see how long you last as a fox.” 

“ _My_ countdown?” Neil scoffed, moving in front of Andrew as if to protect him. “More like yours. If my father has knowledge of what happens down here, yours will also see just how pathetic you are. What will your brother do when he realises your perfect court is a fucking mess?”

“Your life is meaningless without me. Your wilfulness is a blight against your family name.”

“Are you serious? Did you swallow a bunch of knives when you died? The amount of edge you’re spewing right now has me seriously worried for your health.”

 _That damned smart mouth._ Andrew wanted to shut it.

Something shifted in Riko’s eyes, a pulse of revulsion, a sliver of silver, flaring, burning, only to be swallowed again by darkness. The monster shook its head almost ruefully. “I’m trying to do you a favour, Wesninski. You will never survive as a ferryman. I can save you. I can spare everyone you care for. Just renounce them. Let me in.”

 _Never survive. Never survive,_ the hollow men echoed. 

But Neil was having none of that. “I’ll never _live_ as a Raven. I am a Fox and you do not have the power to change that.” 

Neil was edging more and more in front of Andrew, his free hand making an odd gesture behind his back. Realising that Neil was pointing with the knife blade, Andrew began to scan the ground. _There_ , in nose-bleed orange, was Andrew’s racquet. Reluctantly, Andrew let go of Neil for the last time, for their last chance, heel-toeing on silent feet towards the heavy weapon.

“Such a pity. You could have been great. Could have brought the waste land together, ruled at my feet. We could have been kings.”

Neil rolled his eyes. “You are a monster.”

“I am a god.” Riko spread his arms wider again, the army of night-ghast cawing around him. “Last chance.”

“ _No,_ ” Neil said aloud, and Andrew felt the finality, the hardness. 

Cackling, Riko lunged forward, his clawed hands rose high and Andrew knew Riko was going to kill Neil with this blow. He seized the racquet and ran, putting everything he left behind his swing. 

Andrew missed Riko by a hair. 

Went careening by, weight of the racquet dragging him down and away from Neil.

Shoulder colliding with stone, Andrew watched Riko’s tooth-filled maw pull into a grin, the twitching and feathery scales of Riko’s blackened skin as muscles tensed for the kill, the glint of Riko’s claws as they plunged towards Neil.  A yell escaped Andrew’s lips – not a word, not an order – just a cry, guttural, wrenched from his soul. Anger burned through his chest, fear froze his lungs.

But Riko’s talons didn’t pierce Neil’s chest, didn’t tear his skin, gouge him open. They cradled his face and dragged him high until blue eyes met red. Neil was clutching Riko’s wrists, twisting, trying to free himself. It was futile. Riko was strong. Neil was exhausted. Black mist bubbled from between Riko’s fingers. Neil jerked in Riko’s grip – contorted, writhed, flailed until his back bent into a rictus of pain and his jaw droped in a silent scream.

Andrew wrenched himself upright, racquet scraping at his feet but arms too shattered to lift it. He took a lurching step, tripped, fell to his knees.  

Neil thrashed, tears dripping from his chin as Riko began to laugh. The sound was nothing Andrew had ever heard, cutting deep into his edges. If he’d felt nothing before, now he felt everything – his heart was a jackhammer, his blood a roar of pain.

_He was going to lose Neil. He was going to break his promise._

“Let him go.” _Please, please, please._ Andrew forced himself to his hands and knees. He would crawl to Neil if he had to, drag himself through the dirt by his nails if he must. He had one knife left. He would make it count.

Riko’s laugh only grew crueller. Not sparing Andrew’s broken form so much as a glance, the raven king leant in to Neil’s ear.

“Daddy’ll be in touch,” Riko promised, letting Neil drop to the ground in a cloud of charcoal coloured smoke. “ _Promise.”_

 And then Riko was gone. And the night-ghast were gone. And the hollow men vanished into the cracks and crannies and shadows of the Valley and all that was left was Neil, foetal on the ground, eyes squeezed shut, tears still leaking from beneath his lashes.

Ignoring the sting in his hands, Andrew inch by inch heaved his body to Neil, pulled him in close.

“Abram,” Andrew said. His voice shook. “ _Abram_ , look at me. Look at me, sweetheart.” 

Neil didn’t stop crying, didn’t open his eyes, but he curled into Andrew’s stomach, pressed his nose to the torn hoodie and quaked. Andrew looped his arms around Neil, curved one hand protectively around the back of his head.

They stayed curled together on the frozen ground, in the detritus of the Valley, until the Foxes came and persuaded Andrew to let Neil go long enough to carry them out of the darkness and take them home to the City of Dreadful Night.

***

The group was quiet when they reached the safe house.

Nicky and Kevin were there waiting and despite talk of going to Eden’s, everyone was too exhausted to give the suggestion much real thought. The very idea of trying to celebrate after that shitshow was too much even for Renee, who sought positives as if happy thoughts alone could solve the problem of evil. That, and no one wanted to spend time near Andrew right now, whose silence snarled like a beast among them.   

A wary Matt helped Neil and Andrew up the stairs with a tray of hot tea, cocoa, and biscuits, before telling them to try and wash up, rest.

Andrew ached all over. His body throbbed, his head felt heavy and musty, his chest full of a curious sense of emptiness. All his anger was spent. All his spite was tanked. He guided Neil into the room they were going to share, helped him to the bed to sit down. They hadn’t spoken at all, either of them, on final hour of their journey. They hadn’t touched since they unfurled from each other to lean on Matt and Renee for support. Something hard and cold sat like a lump in Andrew’s stomach – a feeling like he’d been hollowed out and filled with stones.

 _I nearly got Neil killed_. _Neil nearly died_. The thought kept repeating in his head – over and over he saw the moment his racquet missed Riko, felt the surety that Neil was going to be killed, that he had _failed_. Even the memory struck a suckerpunch. _Neil nearly died_.

“I’ll run you a bath,” Andrew said. He could keep his voice steady now, but knew that he still sounded strange, detached.

Neil didn’t look up. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, staring at nothing. Whatever Riko had done, Neil was a loose thread, unspooling all at once. Andrew hesitated in the doorway, before doubling back to kneel beside the bed despite the protest in his knees. He hovered a hand over Neil’s. 

“Yes, or no?” Andrew asked.   

For a second, Neil didn’t seem to register the question, but eventually he nodded – wordless and slow. Andrew lifted Neil’s hand to his mouth, kissed the battered knuckles before turning Neil’s palm face up and placing it at the nape of Andrew’s neck. Slowly, so slowly, in case Neil took back his yes, Andrew slid his other hand to the matching position below Neil’s hairline, stroked his thumb over the juncture between throat and shoulder.

“I want to kiss you, yes or no?”

Neil’s nod brushed their foreheads together; Andrew closed the gap to press the quietest of kisses to Neil’s cheek, his forehead, his nose.

“I let you down,” Andrew murmured, letting the words free by the shell of Neil’s ear, the closest he could come to an apology. “I let this happen to you.”

Stirring, Neil’s face turned into Andrew’s neck. “Now who’s being the idiot,” he said, voice hoarse. 

But all Andrew could feel was anger at himself, self-hatred deep and familiar itching across his arms. He would understand if Neil wanted to break off their deal and leave – Andrew had sworn to stand between him and Riko. He’d failed.

“We’re all here,” Neil said. “We won.”

 _At what cost though_? _Whatever Riko had done_ – Neil’s lips pressed against his jugular and he shivered, distracted. “Now isn’t the time for your neck fetish.”

“Is it yes?” Neil pulls back only enough to breath against the damp patches of skin, sending chills straight to Andrew’s belly.

Andrew hesitated. “Yes.” 

“Then it’s time for my neck fetish, which is really yours if you think about it.” Neil punctuated his words with the brush of lips, a lathe of tongue, stroking along Andrew’s pulse points like he wanted to taste that Andrew was alive. 

Heart stuttering, Andrew drew his hands down to Neil’s shoulders and pushed him back. There was nothing off in Neil’s voice, nothing that should worry him. But Neil’s face was a bruise and Andrew’s body was holding together by a miracle – _because Andrew had failed_. He didn’t understand how Neil could embrace him like nothing had changed, like Andrew was still the stabilising force, the mariner’s light calling him home. He didn’t deserve this trust. Maybe had never deserved it.

What had Andrew said to Neil that day? _Name it and it’s yours_. How fucking arrogant could he be? _Look how much it nearly cost them_.

“You gave everything, Andrew, and we won,” Neil said. “You made sure we won. That thing with the stalactites? If you had a cape, you’d be a super hero. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’d have all be dragged under if you hadn’t done that.”

 _But it hadn’t been enough. Not even the_ lux aeterna _had been enough._

“What Riko did to you…” Andrew began to say but Neil cut him off. 

“Was horrible, sure.” Neil’s eyes dropping to his hands. “He made me relive every memory from my time with my father. The pain… was a warning. Of what I’ll go back to, if my father wakes me up.”

“Can he do that?”

“Apparently he’s done it before.” Neil shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never give him what he wants. I’d just find my way back.”

A little of the heaviness in Andrew’s stomach started to ease. He leant into Neil, their mouths meeting half way in a tired kiss.

“So about that bath…” Neil said as they separated. “Fancy making it a shower? Together?” 

Andrew blinked, mind going blank. _Neil. Shower. Together_. 

“We don’t have to.” Neil brushed his nose down the side of Andrew’s cheek, gentler than a deer. 

No, they didn’t have to. But fates, Andrew wanted to. “Okay.” 

Neil stood first, swaying slightly before offering a hand to help Andrew up. They didn’t dawdle, locking themselves in the bathroom and turning on the water to warm up before Neil started to play with the hem of his t-shirt. Andrew stared at where his fingers rubbed the fabric, where the flash of Neil’s hipbones left his mouth dry. He reached for Neil’s hands, guided them away as he stepped closer and slid his own palms over Neil’s stomach, dragging the t-shirt up with his touch. Neil was all sinuous muscle and sharp angles, lithe but not brittle. Andrew sought out the familiar scars – the stab wounds, the gravel burn, the bullet hole, the iron brand – they were warm and textured, braille to the blind. There was never any risk of Andrew not knowing who Neil was with skin like this.

Skimming along Neil’s ribs, he tugged the t-shirt free before undoing Neil’s flies next, pushing the cargo-trousers down over sharp hips and holding Neil steady as he stepped out of them. Andrew stared at Neil, ran his eyes over him – those runner’s thighs, that flat belly – surveyed the damage. There weren’t too many new injuries, only a handful of scrapes and blackening welts. The tightness in his chest eased further as he catalogued the clear spaces of unbruised skin. He still reached for Abby’s salve, smoothed it over the few markings around Neil’s ribs, his shoulder and wrists.

Neil watched him, loose limbed and quiet, holding himself still under Andrew’s touch though his breathing picked up, catching when Andrew grazed his collarbone and squeezed, _just so_ , on the pressure point. Andrew dropped his mouth to the same point, trailed a line along Neil’s clavicle before dipping his tongue into the hollow of his throat. Neil’s little gasps were becoming familiar to Andrew, but never grew less satisfying. Andrew grazed along Neil’s waist, stroked down sharp shoulder blades, biding his time – waiting for those shuddering breaths to deepen into pants, into the neediness he found so fascinating and delicious. It didn’t take long; goosebumps prickled along Neil’s skin as Andrew’s touches gained pressure, pushing into tired muscles, making Neil’s lungs stutter, his hands flutter. Neil had to be one of the most responsive men Andrew had ever kissed. 

The shower behind them was steaming, leaving a thin and warm mist rising up around them, Andrew pushed Neil backwards.

“Fucckk, Andrew.” Neil hissed as his back hit the cool glass of the shower wall.

Neil’s skin was pinking, scars standing out on flushed skin, and Andrew traced them all with the pads of his fingers, noting the ones that made Neil tremble, the ones that made him still. Neil’s reactions were addictive – as Andrew’s mouth licked around one nipple and then the next, Neil’s hips bucked as he let out a long whine, grabbing at the glass as if that would stop him from reaching out without Andrew’s permission. Andrew did it again, nipping once just to see how Neil squirmed. 

He wanted to see Neil lose control. Wanted to take Neil apart piece by piece and replace every memory of pain with Andrew’s mouth and fingers and pleasure. 

He loved the knowledge that Neil would let him. That Neil would submit and let Andrew drive him into a needy puddle of _want_. 

Slipping fingers to the waistline of Neil’s boxers, Andrew squeezed Neil’s hips, pulled them harshly against his own. “Take these off.”

“Take yours off,” Neil half-asked, half-begged even as he reached to push his boxers off, kicked them away from his ankles. Neil was naked and already hard, and Andrew smirked, pulling all the way back, making Neil whine once more at the loss of touch.

“Take what off?”

“All of it, any of it, whatever you want.” Neil rushed over his words; blue irises bright against the wide black of his pupils. 

Andrew raised an eyebrow. He curled a finger into the black ring of his collar. “This?”

“Y-yeah,” Neil said.

“Take it off me,” Andrew replied; when Neil only took a tentative step forward, he added. “It’s yes, for now.”

Neil grinned, pulled Andrew’s black t-shirt off and let out a strangled gasp. “Andrew.” 

“Don’t.” Andrew knew what he must look like – bruised and beaten, his shoulders mottled from where they’d struck the ground over and over. Neil’s sympathy, however, didn’t interest him. 

Crowding forward, Andrew caged Neil back against the glass, kisses hard enough to bruise, soft enough to swallow the sounds escaping Neil’s mouth. Neil looped his arms around Andrew’s neck, scratched his fingers through Andrew’s undercut and tugged them closer, closer, until they were pressed together, chest to chest, ragged scars to battered skin. Neil’s legs dropped apart as Andrew curled a hand around his arse, tugging Neil close so his cock brushed Andrew’s clothed thigh. Neil almost threw his head against the wall, but Andrew slid a quick hand beneath to stop the collision. 

“Careful, you don’t have braincells to waste.” 

Neil groaned and rubbed his skull into Andrew’s fingers, which tightened to become painful. “Urgh, fucksake, you fucking asshole.”

Andrew chuckled, bit down on the corner of Neil’s shoulder by the edge of the iron burn. Incoherent Neil was his favourite Neil, this sweary version coming a close second. Heat curled in Andrew’s gut, jeans growing tight.

Swiping his tongue over the new bitemark, he pulled Neil’s hands to his flies. “Take these off next,” he ordered and felt the tremble in Neil’s fingers. They popped the button, worked the zipper down, hovered. “Hands where I can see them.” 

Neil whined but complied, raising his arms and crossing his wrists over his head. “Better?” 

“Perfect,” Andrew said. “My good little rabbit.” That caused another perfect little hitch in Neil’s breathing, a ragged exhalation that Andrew licked out of his mouth.

Their tongues battled, Andrew moving to pin Neil’s wrists whilst he pushed himself out of his jeans, leaving himself equally as hard and equally as naked as the man below him. When Andrew pulled away, Neil glanced downwards, swallowed, wetted his kiss-swollen lips. For all they’d fooled around in bed, this was the first time they’d both been fully nude and Andrew enjoyed watching the hunger igniting his eyes, turning them dark and desperate.   

Nudging them both away from the wall, Andrew shifted them from the wall. “Get in the shower,” he said with a shove. 

Neil paused only briefly to make sure Andrew was behind him. Kicking his jeans away, Andrew gave Neil what he wanted, following with a smirk simmering at the edges. Neil was already soaked, hair turning deepest auburn, skin glimmering with a sheen of water – he  looked like he wanted to reach out, hands twitching like they weren’t sure where the boundaries were tonight – Andrew’s expression grew sharkish when instead, Neil raised them once more above his head, pressing himself back against the cold tiles to make room for Andrew.

Andrew stalked the few steps between them, stopping an inch away, close enough to feel the heat from between Neil’s legs. He quirked an eyebrow, raking his attention over Neil’s wet skin, the stutter in his breathing, the fresh hickeys blooming between old wounds, the hard dick twitching between his legs.

“Still yes?” Andrew asked. 

Andrew had had years in the wasteland to deal the damage inflicted by Drake – he knew his boundaries, knew his own needs. No touching without permission. No assumptions about desire. Always, always, enthusiastic and vocal consent.

Neil was definitely vocal. “Yes, fuck, always yes, fucking yes.”

Knocking Neil’s knees apart, Andrew pushed himself between them, arms looping around Neil’s lower back to pull his hips forward. He skimmed the crook of Neil’s neck with his lips, and suddenly it was like Neil needed every inch of their skin to be touching. He weighted himself using Andrew’s renewed grip on his wrists, arched his back to close any semblance of space – the friction made Andrew inhale sharply, shift to better the angle. He kissed Neil hard, like he would devour Neil if he could. He nipped Neil’s lower lip, slid his tongue deep into Neil’s mouth when he gasped, held him against the tiles as he bucked his hips once again, sending jolts of pleasure through them both. Andrew chuckled when Neil jerked against him, body pleading for more. Andrew was happy to give it.

Most of what they’d done back in the cottage was heavy, bordering on rough, but Andrew had taken his time with Neil, taken him apart and then taken care of his own arousal separately. He couldn’t stand the thought of that tonight. Neil was needy and hungry, his gasps like a balm, his supplication an elixir. Andrew could worship this man, this soul, on his knees and he’d fucking enjoy every second. But right now, he wanted to touch, to taste, to tug Neil to completion and then cum across those thick runner’s thighs. Freeing one hand to snake down between them, Andrew hitched one of Neil’s legs around his waist and wrapped his hand around Neil’s erection. Neil huffed, his abs tensing at the sensation: Andrew’s hardness pressing up against his hip, Andrew’s hand setting a relentless rhythm.

“Fuckfuckfuckit, Andrew, fuck,” Neil babbled, brows twitching, neck strained backwards like an offering. 

Spurred on by Neil’s breathlessness, his incoherent mumbles, his moans around Andrew’s name – the world narrowed down to nothing but Neil: the heat of his skin, the curls of auburn hair around his velveteen cock, the leaking red head where the shower spray was too slow to wash away his precum. Everything was made hot and slick by the water. Andrew worked Neil into a frenzy, twisting his wrist to elicit the responses he craved. Never once did Andrew let up his hold, admiring the arch of his spine as he pled for more, the abandon that he gave to Andrew.

It could be seconds or minutes or hours – time worked strangely in the waste land – but one minute Neil was a bow – strung out and taut and trembling – the next he was coming undone in Andrew’s arms, spurting over Andrew’s hand and their stomachs and his mouth was wide and Andrew pumped once, again, then pushed cum laced fingers into Neil’s mouth. Neil’s eyes fluttered opened, tongue curling along with a smile around Andrew’s index and middle fingers, lathering one before suckling on the other. It was Andrew’s turn for his gut to twist and churn with _want_. 

Against his back, the shower pounded against his skin and bruises. He rolled his neck to stare down at Neil, half slumped against the wall, wrists pinioned, legs barely holding him upright, fingers in his mouth. He withdrew them slowly, eyes becoming hooded as Neil reluctantly let go. 

“Hold onto my shoulders,” Andrew said, guiding Neil’s arms down so he didn’t slip. 

Neil didn’t need much by way of prompting, he wrapped himself tight around where Andrew placed him. “Can I kiss your neck?”

“Rude if you didn’t.” 

With that, Neil bit at the savage line of Andrew’s jaw, the soft skin of his throat, tasting and licking and chasing water as it slid down the line of his jugular. The sensation shot straight downwards through Andrew, his _want_ burning quickly away into red-hot _need_.

Andrew took a better grip on Neil’s leg wrapped around his middle and his waist, starting slow, long thrusts that quickly sped up against Neil’s thigh. He felt raw, fiery, the pain of his muscles lighting up in contrast to the heat growing in his stomach. His grip on Neil’s thigh tightened enough to leave bruises as he fucked against Neil’s pelvis again and again, eyes dropping closed and hips snapping faster as Neil flicked his tongue over Andrew’s earlobe.

“You look so good like this Andrew,” Neil whispered. “You treat me so good. Feel so safe, so good. And your arms, big and strong like they could hold the world. Fuck yes, will you cum for me?”

 _That goddamned filthy mouth_. Andrew’s lips pulled back in a snarl – his pace picking up, his cock impossibly hard and he was close, _so close._  

“Will you cum? Cum all over me, Andrew?” 

“Shut. Up.” Andrew let go with one hand, barely checking to see that Neil was balanced. He pressed his forearm across Neil’s throat, pushing him back, making the idiot grin and shudder for every breath. It wasn’t enough to choke, but Andrew saw the way Neil’s pupils expanded. The little shit liked the restriction, the friction.

And fuck if Neil wasn’t growing hard again, cock stirring against his stomach. Neil grabbed Andrew’s hair, tugged him toward his mouth. Andrew pushed forward and gave Neil the kiss he demanded, breathing rasping and rattled. Andrew didn’t slow down. Neil’s lips against his curved into his knifeblade smile and he sucked Andrew’s lower lip, letting go with a pop.  

“Fuck, Neil.” Andrew’s voice sounded rough, fractured, even to himself. The fingers clutching around Neil’s hip sunk deeper and he moved his arm to bury his face in Neil’s throat, groaning low and shattered, hips twitching with each spurt of his orgasm over Neil’s perfect thighs. _The fates were playing god when they allowed legs like Neil’s._

It was Neil’s turn to hold them both up as Andrew went still and heavy above him. He eased his curled leg away from Andrew’s waist, slid his grip from Andrew’s shoulders to loop his arms under Andrew and pull him close, nuzzling into his hair. “You okay?” Neil asked, quiet and shy. 

Andrew nodded into his chest. The shower spray against his skin was hot and growing uncomfortable, but he felt boneless, emptied out and comfortable. Neil’s fingers carded through the hair at the back of Andrew’s head, ruffling and smoothing as they went. 

It was only when Neil shivered that Andrew drew back so Neil could wash clean. When Neil pointedly lifted Abby’s salve, Andrew’s weary body almost sank to the floor but Neil turned the shower off and guided him to the sink, propping Andrew against it so he could tend to the dark purples, reds, and blooming blacks mottling Andrew’s shoulders and back. 

When they finally returned to their bedroom, Andrew crawled over to put his back to the wall and tugged Neil in beside him, close to his body in a way he’d never allow anyone else. His hand crawled under Neil’s pillow, just so he could feel the weight of Neil’s head. One of Neil’s feet hooked around Andrew’s ankle and his lips turned up just slightly.

Andrew’s heart jolted. _He’s so pretty,_ he thought. Neil’s smile was a delicate thing, full of a thousand soft and terrifying feelings that Andrew refused to name. Neither of them knew how long they might have like this. Riko and his threats would always be a risk to them. But right now Neil was so pretty and happy and soft.

Neil reached a tired hand to Andrew’s face, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Thank you,” Neil said. “You were amazing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG chapter meant slower to update BUT you get your smut and I get my massive action scene. Oh and there's now two shorter extra chapters incoming because PLOT TWIST - the outline for this chapter covered too much and I decided to split it out. Should come out pretty fast though. 
> 
> This one is unbeta'd so apologies for any clumsy thumbsies. 
> 
> Thoughts, opinions, feels. Hit me.
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	14. grave (watered by the rain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thank you. You were amazing. He knew if Andrew was less exhausted, he’d spot the finality in Neil’s words, he’d realise that Neil was saying goodbye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the thirteenth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end.
> 
> No TWs but this is sad and short. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter thirteen: grave (watered by the rain)**

_“And you have fixed my life — however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you have fixed me. I spun round you a satellite for a month, but I shall swing out soon, a dark star in the orbit where you will blaze.”_

**― Wilfred Owen, Selected Letters**

***

_“Thank you_ ,” Neil said. “ _You were amazing_.”

Lying in the darkness next to Andrew as the ferryman’s breath evened out into sleep, Neil whispered the words over and over again in his head.

He knew if Andrew was less exhausted, he’d spot the finality in Neil’s words, he’d realise that Neil was saying goodbye.

_Thank you. You were amazing._

Hopefully, Andrew would figure it out – that Neil didn’t want to go, that he desperately, dyingly, didn’t want this to end. That he meant _thank you for everything,_ for the trust and the kisses, the pendant and the long nights mocking Riko, the warm touch that kept him grounded and the cold calm that kept him safe. Andrew remained the first solid foundation Neil had ever had a chance to hold.

_Thank you,_ he’d said _,_ because it was the closest he could come to _I’ll miss you, I’ll always need you, I wish things could have been different_. 

_Amazing_ , he'd called him because there was no one he'd ever met like Andrew Minyard - a weapon, a fighter, warlike with flames in his eyes; yet also like the solid earth after a lifetime at sea, at once dizzyingly real, secure and strong.

_Thank you. You were amazing._

Five words that were all he could say and everything he couldn’t. He watched Andrew’s face as it smoothed out in sleep and was glad that for once the night was peaceful, that there was no more howling storm, no screaming night-ghast, no taunts and threats from the Raven King. Neil sighed, and stroked his eyes over Andrew’s pale skin, his sarcastic brows and firm mouth, everything softened in sleep.  

Neil knew the others were still awake, he could hear them somewhere below, shifting restlessly through the house. They were probably on edge, wondering why Riko had given up the way he had.

But Neil had caught Kevin’s eyes when they came in. Kevin was the only one who didn’t watch the sky as the ferrymen approached – he watched Neil instead, his cool green gaze tracking Neil like a scientist might a particularly interesting lab rat.

_He knows_ , Neil thought every time they crossed paths. _He knows what Riko’s done. He knows what’s going to happen._

Maybe Kevin would explain to Andrew. Maybe he would break the news and let Andrew know that Neil didn’t choose to go, that he hadn’t deliberately lied. He just couldn’t… hadn’t wanted to say that all of their work, everything they’d been through had been for nothing.

Biting his lip, Neil slid a careful hand next to Andrew’s – not quite touching but close enough to feel the warm burr of his skin, and closed his eyes. He wanted to imagine falling asleep like this every night, night’s where they weren’t battered and broken and lost… But no, he couldn’t think about that. His lungs were full of ice, chilling him to the bone and cutting him from the inside out. Taking a slow breath in and counting as high as he could in French. He couldn’t afford to lose control now. Having a panic attack wasn’t going to stop anything, certainly not the process that Riko had put in action. All it would do would wake Andrew.

But with Andrew’s soft snores beside him, lying next to him like this so safely tucked up in their room, it was hard not to think about how much Neil had to lose now. How much he wanted to stay.

He wanted to learn exy with Matt and Dan. Practice his German with Nicky and Erik. He wanted to learn how to harness his new ferryman powers and explore every inch of the ever-changing landscape. He wanted to learn how to transform into a fox, have Andrew sneer and call him the mangiest animal the underworld had ever seen. He wanted to see Andrew transform – for some reason Neil was sure Andrew was just as small and terrifying and beautiful as a fox as he was a human.

He wanted to have stupid conversations about nothing on the rooftop of Fox Tower. He wanted to kiss Andrew when his mouth was full of cigarette smoke, and he wanted to suck the taste of nicotine from his fingers. He wanted to work out what their boundaries were – how far they could go together. He wanted to watch Andrew during a sunset, take time to memorise the way Andrew’s blond hair haloed in the sun and bullet-gold eyes glinted, so dangerous and bright and disorientating. He wanted to spend days with Andrew mocking him, taunting him, threatening him, before kissing bruises into each other’s skin. He wanted to fall asleep, sated and warm and safe, and wake up with Andrew curled around him like he could protect them both from every evil in the world.

_He wanted to stay._ Neil had never wanted to stay anywhere before. Not like this.  

Neil’s eyes stung. He even never realised how much he wanted to _live_ , and fuck if it took dying to figure that out.

“Neil?” Andrew’s sleep saturated voice was still enough to pull every tumbling thought back to solid ground.

Blinking quickly, Neil forced himself to swallow, brushing his thumb against Andrew’s knuckles. “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

“Nightmare?” Andrew asked.

“Something like that.”

Andrew cracked open his eyes, lashes long and silvery. It meant something, Neil knew, that Andrew didn’t throw himself into wakefulness, that he trusted Neil enough to stay so heavy and half-conscious. Still, he caught Neil’s thumb with his own and curled them together. “Go to sleep, rabbit.” _I’ve got you_ , went unsaid.

Neil’s heart fluttered in its cage. He tried to nestle into the pillows and blankets, concentrate on this moment, the one he had not the one he would lose. But though his eyes itched, he couldn’t close them.

“If you won’t sleep, stop staring.” Andrew grumbled.

“I’m not staring.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Fine, yes, I am. But you can’t blame me.”

“I can and will blame you, just like I can and will stab you,” Andrew said. “So stop.”

Neil smiled and shook his head. “How about you stop me?”

Andrew cracked his eyes again, shuffled his head forward on his pillow and pressed dry lips to Neil’s. It was soft and chapped and short, over too soon. It reminded Neil of their first, back at the cottage. He let his eye drift shut when Andrew pressed a second peck to his jaw, before pulling back.

“Sleep,” Andrew said.

_Thank you,_ Neil kept his eyes closed. _You were amazing._

Neil loved how Andrew could kiss him one way, like this was a fight with their lives on the line, but the next like Neil was the most precious thing in his life. It wasn’t fair.

Maybe it was still enough? Neil didn’t know how much time he had left or what would happen when it ran out – although he suspected it wouldn’t be long and wouldn’t be pleasant – but this had been good right? Whilst it lasted.

For most of his existence, Neil had counted his life in days, knowing there was no point in thinking weeks or years ahead. On the other hand, looking at Andrew now _hurt_. It was like looking at the future he could never have. His throat ached, tight as a guitar string.

Yet for the first time in his life, the urge to run was overwhelmingly absent. There was no desperate need to rip himself away from Andrew and the Foxes. To run and run and burn and burn. He didn’t want turn to fumes before the inevitable happened. He never wanted to stop feeling this.

_Thank you. You were amazing._

_But god, Neil was so sorry to let it go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Thoughts? Feels? Hit me! 
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	15. (loving you’s a) bloodsport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Andrew, he could be with Matt and Dan. He could be absolutely fine.”
> 
> But Neil was never fine. Neil didn’t know the meaning of the word. He was a jagged, knife-tongued survivalist and he was never, ever, fine. Andrew’s heart thundered in his chest, brutal as a summer storm, the air around him feeling heavy and too hot and like the world wanted to press him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the fourteenth chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end.
> 
> No TWs. In fact, there may even be a ray of hope for you all. 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter fourteen: (loving you’s a) bloodsport**

_“Do not stand at my grave and weep,_  
_I am not there, I do not sleep._  
_I am in a thousand winds that blow,_  
_I am the softly falling snow.”_

 _―_ **_Mary Elizabeth Frye_ **

**_***_ **

When Andrew woke, there was nobody curled into his chest, no snuffles against his skin.

The other side of the bed was still warm, but he was alone.

Neil must have left recently, though it was weird for Andrew not to have woken with him. Stretching out sore shoulders, Andrew traced over the dent Neil left behind in the mattress. Since he and Neil started sharing a bed, he’d grown used to – if not accepting of – the way Neil nestled closer in the night, how he sought out Andrew’s body heat like an infrared homing missile. Andrew knew there would be bad days, nights where it was too much and the memories of his life crowded too close – but usually the gnarls of Neil’s skin were enough to remind him of where he was, that this was the wasteland, Neil, and home. He wished he could trace that skin now, remind himself they were both safe and whole in the foxhole sanctuary.

Andrew yawned. “Neil?” He called out as he rolled out of bed.

There was no reply. Andrew tipped his head; he could hear nothing from the bathroom. Neil must have gone downstairs.

Grabbing the first t-shirt and jeans from the top of the drawers, Andrew headed towards the kitchen. Maybe Neil had put on coffee. That would be nice. He held tightly to the bannister as he went down the stairs, almost too sore to take them normally but stubborn enough to force his muscles to carry him step by step; he did cave to wrapping an arm around his left ribs – damn those hurt. He’d need to apply more of the balm before they continued the journey back from the City to Fox Tower.

The kitchen was empty except for a half-awake Renee.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said to Andrew as he hobbled in. “I’m making coffee if you want any?”

Andrew nodded and eased himself into a chair. “Are the others awake? Have you seen Neil?”

“Neil? No. The others are around – Dan and Matt went to Eden’s to pick up some more supplies. I think Nicky just went to grab cereal from the cellar.”

“That, I did, and I return bearing gifts! Andrew, we still have some of your faves here, see.” Nicky blasted into the kitchen with an enthusiasm that was really not appreciated at this low-level of caffeine.

Andrew took the box of cookie crisp nonetheless, grabbing a fist of them as soon as the pack was open. They tasted of nothing in his mouth, his jaw going through the motion of chewing but his brain was beginning to fire with a gnawing, chilling, dark sensation – like staring at the crack of light beneath a door and waiting for the shadow behind it to pass. “Nicky, have you seen Neil?”

Nicky’s grin grew wide and salacious. “No, but I think we all _heard_ him, last night. Good going, by the way.”

Andrew levelled Nicky with a dead-eyed glare that had his cousin giggling nervously seconds later.

“Okay, okay, we’ll never mention that again,” said Nicky.

“So, neither of you have seen Neil?”

There was a buzz in Andrew’s head – waking up in the night to find Neil shivering beside him, the desperation Neil showed to touch and hold and kiss, Neil’s words before Andrew fell asleep: _Thank you, you were amazing._ Neil had _cried_ in the Valley; he’d sobbed into Andrew’s stomach, been muted and hollow until Andrew started to blame himself. Andrew thought of the dark clouds spilling around Riko’s taloned hands. He thought of Neil’s screams.

_What had Riko done?_

_Where was Neil?_

Still clutching the box of cookie cereal, Andrew pushed past his pain – he needed to check the house, Neil could be somewhere around.

Neil could have gone to chat with Allison (but Allison was alone). He could have gone to see Wymack to ask about the new ferryman powers (but Wymack was alone). He could have gone to the roof (but the roof was empty).

Andrew’s yells rang through the house. _Neil. Neil. Neil._

Nicky chased after him, searching cupboards and under beds when he realised that Andrew was otherwise going to tear apart the house looking for his rabbit.

“Andrew, he could be with Matt and Dan. He could be absolutely fine.”

But Neil was never fine. Neil didn’t know the meaning of the word. He was a jagged, knife-tongued survivalist and he was never, ever, fine.

Andrew’s heart thundered in his chest, brutal as a summer storm, the air around him feeling heavy and too hot and like the world wanted to press him down.

He called out again, again.

“ _Abram,”_ he whispered.

The front door clicked somewhere behind them and Andrew pelted through the house. It was Matt and Dan. Alone.

Nicky explained the situation because Andrew had no words. His face was ashen. His skin felt like it was on fire. A furore started up around him as the Foxes try to plan, to work out where the missing member of their party could have gone. Neil couldn’t have gone far. Neil wouldn’t have slipped out without telling anyone. An intruder couldn’t have kidnapped him. They all fell silent when Andrew pulled out the knife from the Butcher, its blade glinting in the light. He turned it this way, then that.

Neil must have known something – _known_ – and not told Andrew. Andrew remembered the light in Neil’s blue eyes, looking at Andrew like he was the answer to a world’s hardest equation. He remembered the feeling of holding Neil, believing he was safe and admiring the happy curl of Neil’s mouth against his skin. He remembered Neil telling him that his father had pulled him back from the underworld once before, but that _it didn’t matter_ because he’d come back.

 _Neil wanted to stay_ , Andrew reminded himself. _Neil wouldn’t just go_.

None of that mattered. Andrew was livid. Neil had known something was going to happen and apparently he’d let it. How was Andrew supposed to keep his promise if Neil wouldn’t stop being a self-sabotaging idiot?

But beneath the anger – the roaring, burning fury – lurked another feeling. Worse than the sense of knowledge, of doom. Worse than the hate and the hurt lodged in his sternum.

Nicky called Andrew’s name. He dragged his attention to the Foxes, turned his gaze one by one to each of them. Jaws were tense. Brows were drawn close.

Except for Kevin. Kevin just looked confused. Kevin who hadn’t been there before but now stood with an expression of piqued curiosity.

“You know something?” Andrew rasps, his voice stone against stone. “Where is Neil?”

Kevin’s jaw twitched. He shuffled from foot to foot and refused to look Andrew in the eye. Slamming Kevin into the wall, Andrew was across the room before he knew it, hands around Kevin’s throat, anger strumming a frenetic beat through his body.

“What do you know?” Andrew bit out again. He pressed down, felt Kevin’s larynx buckling. Hands were on Andrew’s shoulders, tugging at his arms but he shook them off. “If you don’t fucking talk, Kevin…”

“Andrew, he can’t talk. He can’t breathe. Let him go. Come on, let him go.” Dan’s entreaties were pitched low enough to almost be soothing. She’d been a coach in a past life, maybe this was how she learnt to sound so calm, so sensible.

Renee backed Dan. “Andrew, please.” Both her hands hovered over Andrew’s, not touching. He knew that if she wanted to she could take him – she was a bishop on the board, fast and deadly and working purely in sharp angles – but her gentleness, this understanding of Andrew’s boundaries, was what worked now.

With a grunt like a growl, Andrew loosened his grip on Kevin’s throat, pinning the other man back to the wall by his shoulders. He didn’t care when Kevin started hacking on the fresh air to his lungs. He didn’t care when Kevin’s tear-bright eyes looked at him with betrayal.

 “Talk,” Andrew said.

 Kevin opened his mouth but no words immediately came out. Andrew shoved him again.

 “What do you know?”

 Kevin tried again and this time he told Andrew everything. He said that Nathaniel had reeked of dark magic when they returned last night, necromantic magic. He said that he’d been able to sense that Neil’s soul was fluctuating between life and afterlife. That it felt like Riko had pushed Neil back into his body in the living world, if only briefly, if only to send a signal to the Butcher.

  _Neil had been pulled back to his body by his father_. Andrew’s brain stuttered over the revelation. He remembered Neil’s truths – stories of a monster called Lola who cut the knuckles off Neil’s fingers one by one and fed them to him; stories of a beast called Romero who pissed on him; stories of the Butcher – Neil’s nightmarish father – glorifying in the bloodshed, crippling his own son, doing everything in his power to break him.

  _Fates,_ Andrew thought desperately. _Neil couldn’t go back there._

 “I didn’t know that you didn’t know,” Kevin trailed off. “I thought that was why you were all so morose last ngiht.”

 Andrew had dropped his hold on Kevin sometime during the explanation and now he took a step back and another. Neil knew this was going to happen. He must have. He hadn’t told Andrew. _Because he knew you couldn’t do anything. Because he knew you were weak, AJ._

Numbness crawled through Andrew’s skin, permeated his muscles, dug itself into his soul. For the briefest time, with Neil at his side, he’d remembered what it was like to live. His lungs had burnt with cigarette smoke. His insides had trembled with desire. His heart had felt whole, felt full.

But there had to be away to help Neil. Had to be. What lengths would the Butcher go to, to destroy his son? No matter that Neil thought he’d come back in the end, that he believed he could survive _again_ and come back to the wasteland, to Andrew. What if he didn’t? What if Nathan Wesninski could do something _more_ , something _worse_? Rage warred with emptiness, filled the cracks in his chest with boiling, white-hot desperation. Andrew would kill him. He would destroy the Butcher if he so much as touched Neil again. He'd rip apart his soul and shred it to the four corners of the waste land. He would feed that monster to the night-ghast himself. Neil was  _Andrew's_. Neil was his to protect, his to care for, his to love. Andrew would  _end_ Lola and Romero and Nathan Wesninski. They'd never see it coming. 

_But you're stuck here. What are you going to do now, AJ? Wait for the ickle bickle baby rabbit to come back a Hollow Man?_

Andrew’s chest felt like it might rupture. Like it might implode, collapse into itself and become a black hole, devouring everything he touched.

 _Neil was gone._  

He tried to wrap his head around this fact, but no matter how absolute it seemed to slip through his grasp. 

 _Neil was gone_.

And Andrew was helpless. _Helpless. Helpless._

 _Wait,_ Andrew frowned. Waves of horror, of powerlessness and fear washed through him. Waves that seemed to call his name _Andrew, Andrew, Andrew._ For a second, he could feel handcuffs around his wrists, feel the bite of steel against raw skin. Desperation, anguish, agony. Andrew lifted a shaking hand to the pendant around his neck, the twin of which he’d given to Neil. Emotions flooded through him, fast and hot and familiar and very much not his own. 

_Oh. You stupid, smart-assed rabbit._

He looked up at Renee, eyes widening. “Neil is gone,” Andrew said. 

“But I know where he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Thoughts? Feels? Hit me!
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	16. (help i’m) alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence.
> 
> There should have been breathing, gentle snores beside him, the distant rumble of conversation, the drone of the shower. Something.
> 
> But there was only silence. Neil was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the FINAL chapter of (dont fear) the reaper. For those interested, you can also find the inspiration board on pinterest and the playlist for this story on Spotify. Links at the end.
> 
> TWs: LOTS OF TORTURE. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH STUFF. AND BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO EVERYONE. I'm sorry, we've made it this far, we're in Baltimore. It's really really not pretty. 
> 
> Tell me if you want the epilogue at the end :3 
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter fifteen: (help i’m) alive**  

_“This is the rotten core, the Grünewald, the nails in the hands, the needle in the arm, the trauma, the bomb, the thing after which we cannot ever write poems, the slammed door, the in-principio-erat-verbum. Very What-the-fuck. Very blood-sport. Very university historical. But don’t stop looking.”_

_― Max Porter, Grief is the Thing with Feathers_

***

_Silence_.

There should have been breathing, gentle snores beside him, the distant rumble of conversation, the drone of the shower. _Something_.

But there was only silence. Neil was alone.

Blinking his eyes open, he tried to lift his head from where it rested but pain shot through his spine, sharp and hot and insistent. He rattled in a gasp, felt it lance through his body as if the air itself was full of knives.

Neil tried to make himself focus, running himself through a scan of his body like Andrew had done with the alaethian tea.

He was lying on something hard, metallic. He wasn’t completely naked, there was a medical style shift covering his chest and the tops of his legs. But his bones were sharp and uncomfortable against the cold surface. His wrists were cuffed, no longer raw but still ragged and sore. There was something around his throat, holding him down. He felt pinioned, stuck, his heart fluttering like a moth under a lepidopterologist’s microscope.

He knew what had happened. He knew where he had to be.

Forced to stare upwards, he took in the cracked ceiling and the top of cement walls. The room was brighter than he remembered, smaller too, but still full of the same chill as the grave. He knew if he could look down, he’d see the rust-red drain and off to the left, the three long shelves full of all his father’s favourite knives.

Resignation caressed the edges of Neil’s thoughts – _Riko had been right_ – but Neil had never done well with his back against the wall. He steadied his breathing, slowly deepening his inhalations to fill in the spaces where there was stiffness and pain. 

 _You are in Baltimore. You are alive. You are at your father’s house and if you want to see Andrew again, you need to escape._ Neil repeated the phrase in his head, turned it into a mantra. _If you want to see Andrew again, you need to escape_.

So how could he escape when he was pinned like this? His best bet was going to be when someone came for him. They wouldn’t leave him alone for long, no matter how trapped they believed him to be. He was his mother’s son too, wily and prone to disappearing - the Butcher’s men would never forget that.

Footsteps told Neil that he was correct. Dread coiled around his bones.

There was no way this wasn’t going to hurt.

He wasn’t surprised when Lola’s face was the first to lean over him – her toothy smile was wide and lined with poppy red lipstick. She might have been pretty once, he supposed, but there was a mad malicious gleam in her eyes that made her monstrous. Neil instinctively recoiled, flinching into the metal table.

She cooed when she saw his eyes open. “Junior’s awake, how delightful. Did you have a good nap?”

Neil would have spat in her face but his mouth was too dry. He croaked: “Fuck you.”

Her grin grew impossibly wider. “Death helped you regrow your spine did it? I can’t wait to break it again.”

It was Neil’s turn to smile. “You never broke me.”  _You never will._

“We’ll see about that, sweetcheeks. But first, let’s help you sit upright. Make you a little more presentable for daddy.”

Neil gasped when the pressure around his throat was lifted, barely held back a whimper as they manhandled him, moving limbs that clearly hadn’t been moved in some time. His legs burned, his back felt scorched and raw. His wrists were unlocked from the bed, before being quickly cuffed back together in front of him. Then Lola started on the bandages around his hands. Her movements were deliberately rough, ripping away the cotton and tearing scar tissue. By the time she was done, Neil’s eyes were hot, his breaths short. His hands were ruins – the fingers on his right hand were raw stumps, bones visible in the middle of grey, decaying flesh; his left hand was only slightly better - littered with tiny cuts and burns where Lola had previously taken inspiration from Morse code to spell out his sins with knives and a blow torch.

He didn’t want to think about what they could do next – how it could be worse than the burns and the cuts and the humiliation and the despair from before – his body was already a ruin: crippled, maimed, reduced to jutting bones and shredded skin. He didn’t want to think about Lola’s other promises – how she’d whispered in his ear all the filthy things she wanted to do to his body, alive and dead.

 _Just my type_ , she’d called him _, especially when you can’t struggle_.

“I know your father’s going to have plenty of questions, but why don’t we get started, hm?” Lola said, as she ran her hands along the shelves, clearly thinking about what tool to start with. “Why didn’t you die properly?”

She finally chose a wide santoku knife, held it to her mouth as she turned back to Neil so it looked like she had a broad, silver smile from cheek to cheek. Neil’s heart gave a panicked jump, began to race. He tried to tell himself that he’d survived worse, both in life and death, but that didn’t stop his stomach from trembling.  

“Last chance to talk before things get a little prickly around here, Nathaniel,” Lola said. “Oh what am I kidding, I’m going to stick you like a pig no matter what you say, but you might as well talk at the same time or I’ll make it much, much worse.”

“I did die,” said Neil. “Not my fault you didn’t do your part right.”

“Playing dumb? How cute.” Lola prowled close, raising one hand to cradle his cheek. Her nails were long, manicured into points that dug into his cheek. She lifted the santoku’s tip to his left eye, let it nick the soft skin of his lower lid. “Shall I take one of your pretty eyes? Would that loosen your tongue?”

Sickness and horror warred inside Neil, his tongue felt too thick for his mouth, his throat too tight for words. He managed to croak once more: “I did die.”

Lola sighed, slid the point down his cheek in a shallow, stinging line – blood welled to the surface, and Neil couldn’t help the relief that poured through him – unfortunately, it seemed to be exactly what Lola wanted. “I suppose it would be a pity to take out your eyes when they show your pain so nicely.” She dug the blade deep into his jaw and he flinched. “There, see, so expressive.”

She continued to ask the same question, over and over, her knife teasing over his skin, dipping through the muscles on his cheeks, peeling Neil apart. He kept his teeth clenched to the inside of his mouth, biting hard enough to taste blood. He wouldn’t give her what she wanted, not yet. He knew, at some point, he would scream for Lola, beg until his voice was lost. But he would make her work for it.

She licked the latest wound from his jaw to eyebrow, tongue harsh and thick, pushing apart the damaged skin. “Why didn’t the ritual work?”

Neil shook his head.

She cut again. “Why didn’t the ritual work?”

“I don’t know,” he croaked.

She sliced deeper, bit at the cut. “Why didn’t the ritual work?”

“Stop it.”

Lola grinned. “Stop me.” She used her talon-like nails to pull apart the incisions and Neil could feel blood, hot and sluggish with dehydration. Lola still chose to bring her mouth to the wound, suck where the blood oozed. The stink of her perfume mixed with the iron tang of his blood.

She handed off the knife to her brother, whose attention was dark and looming. He watched his sister with a strange light in his eyes, dark and longing. Neil remembered, dimly, their conversation about having a child to follow in his father’s footsteps, to ensure their own immortality, and he shuddered. Still when Romero took the knife, the man’s eyes darkened even further. “Is it time?”

“Yes,” Lola said. “Let’s ready the machine for our boy here.”

For a few brief moments, Neil didn’t know what was happening. Lola arranged his bare feet so they were flat against the floor, raised his bound hands and linked them to a long pole that she then slid into the drain at his feet, she pried open his jaw and stuffed a yellowing cloth between his teeth.

“Doesn’t he look good like this? Trussed up like a little pig?”

“You do good work,” Romero agreed. He wrenched the thin shift shirt upwards, exposing Neil’s body and started to attach thin cables to Neil’s ruined hands, his toes, his chest, his thighs.

“Not too close to his heart,” Lola moved one of the clips from his left nipple to the skin below his ribs. “Don’t want to shock him back to where he came from too soon.”

Neil traced the wires from his skin to where Romero stood, looking far too pleased. He knew what the implications of this were but he couldn’t believe it – refused to accept that this was their plan. Denial, of course, changed nothing. He could see the machine behind them, see where there was a dial and plugs and the promise of torture.

“Should we give it a test drive?”

“Let’s. On the lowest setting though.” Lola turned back to Neil, pulling a black knife from her arsenal and dragging it along the cuts she’d already made. “This is made of aconite, baby boy, so it isn’t a conductor. Try not to flinch.”

Lola nodded and Romero gave his sister a sweet smile. A button clicked.

It felt like Neil was being dragged forward, his muscles contracting so hard that his spine drew up like a bridge and arms tucked tight to his ribs. Lola had said not to flinch but he convulsed, spasmed, unable to think beyond _pain, pain, pain_. Dimly, he knew he was stabbing himself on her knife. That she was laughing. That Romero was grinning in front of him. But everything was at a distance, everything was blurred beyond the seizing, wrenching, grabbing current that coursed through him, up the ragged nerves of his hands, the shattered muscles of his legs. He jerked and yelled around the gag in his mouth. Choked. Fizzled. He was nothing but the hum in his body, the zigzag of his heart and _gods, saints, fates,_ the _pain._

Neil didn’t immediately realise the current had stopped. He came down from the agony slowly, with the whole world feeling like it was wrapped in a bubble whilst he sparked and seized.

Time eddied, moiled, blurred. Drool pooled in Neil's mouth and mixed with blood. Tears leaked from his eyes. As he came round, he could feel where Lola had punctured the whole way through his cheek, he could smell the stink of burnt flesh. He tried to breathe but his heart was frantic, his inhalations choked. As sound came back to him, he realised that the high, whining, keening sound was coming from him - caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. When Lola reached out to his face, he recoiled yet again into her waiting knife. He whimpered.

“Such pretty sounds. Shame we need you to keep you tongue for the time being.” She shoved the gag more firmly into his mouth. 

Romero suddenly stiffened, stood straighter: a soldier coming to attention. Lola rose to her feet and let Neil sag against his raised arms. Blood and tears streamed down his face, hot against his lips, dripping down to the floor and creating rivulets streaming towards the drain. Although he wasn’t looking up when his father arrived, he knew the second the door opened who was there.

Nathan Wesninski entered like a squall, the air darkening with his presence. Neil couldn’t tell anymore if this was real or a nightmare. Yet even fractured and weak, Neil felt his skin heat with rage like he’d never known, deeper and darker than anything he’d ever felt. This was the beast who’d ensured Neil never lived whilst alive. The sadist who scooped out every last bit of humanity from Neil’s mother and left her a paranoid and violent shell. Even as Neil’s pulse thundered with fear, his mind turned over the darkest thoughts he’d ever had: the dreams of how he’d kill this man, how he’d destroy him, how he’d survive him. Last time he’d sat here, Neil had had nothing to live for but now there was Andrew and the Foxes, there was an afterlife worth seeking.

Without raising his head, Neil rolled his eyes to peer up at his father. He was the same as ever: hair like a flame, eyes like the arctic, a cleaver in each fist. But he looked thinner, yellow around the edges. His feet were bare and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing the veins – they looked dark, black, not unlike the mottled grey of injuries from the waste land.

Neil waited for the slurs, the questions, the anger – but Nathan only swept cold, dead eyes over his son and pursed his lips. There was something worse about this, something infinitely more terrifying in his father’s blank and distant stare. Nathan wasn’t a man known for staying removed from the situation. That he was now, meant something and it was never going to be something good.

“Here we are again. Me and you, my greatest disappointment in life.”

Neil would have snarled if not for the stuffing in his mouth.

“For someone who’s been dead for a month, you look pretty warm. How did it feel down there, hm? What was it like being dead? Doesn’t really matter. Have you spotted what your disobedience has done to me?” Nathan held his arms wide and Neil knew he was right – whatever Riko had emphasised in the Valley, whatever Neil had done in the waste land by denying the call of the Raven King – it had begun to eat away at his father. It had started to destroy the Butcher. If only he could figure out a way to make that decay stick. Maybe he could still fight back. Still win. 

“I know you must have been faking when we had you here last time so I’ve pulled out some new toys. Do you like my machine, Junior? I feel like your mother would have loved it.”

Nathan twirled his cleaver with a bored expression that still did nothing to disguise the sickness around his skin. He looked starved and smudgy, his eyes two blue flames framed by dark hollows.

“Dial it up. Take it as far as you dare without stopping his heart.”

Lola took a step forward, placed her knife under his chin. Neil trembled and wrenched at his fastenings, fighting to yank his hands free, tearing his wrists open again and again. But he couldn’t stop.

“Don’t,” Neil begged around his gag. “Father, don’t.”

What came out was more sounds than words and for the first time, something like satisfaction carved Nathan’s mouth open. “That’s very good. They say that the ritual requires the promises of a broken soul. You’re so very close to broken already. I don’t see this taking long.”

Before Neil could make sense of the words or take hold of his terror, Lola flipped the switch.

_White out. Static._

Electricity blistered through Neil – but this wasn’t burning, it was worse. It was being torn apart and compressed into place. It was every atom of his body shaken to pieces, splintering, vanishing. Muscles contracted. His bones became ice and fire and a storm that grabbed him, froze him, tore him, scorched him.

As Neil flung his head backwards in a scream, something small thudded against his chest. He could barely breathe through the pain, but the feeling was so familiar, so ingrained into his memory, he choked around the gag and he clung to that smallest bit of awareness - he’d traced that pendant over and over in the waste land, and it was as real now as it was then.

 _Andrew_. He thought. _Andrew. Andrew. Andrew_.

Through the haze, he realised this was it. This was his end. There would be no Foxes or Andrew in his future. Not if he continued like this. He wanted to say goodbye properly. He wanted to apologise. He wanted to kiss Andrew and tell him he’d do it all again for those moments they had together. He wanted to see Andrew one more time.

Neil let himself think of the fire he felt with Andrew, how he didn’t care about burning then. He thought about Andrew’s hands, which even half asleep knew him better than he’d ever known himself. He thought of the tempest Andrew stirred up in him, how Andrew wasn’t the intro or the verse or the chorus but the whole damn song being played by the whole damned orchestra inside of Neil’s soul. He needed Andrew like he needed oxygen, urgent and essential.

But he had to let go now.

He had to exhale.

He had to say goodbye to Neil Josten, the life he’d found in death. He had to welcome back Nathaniel Wesninski, the only monster mad enough to stay sane through whatever was coming next.

As Nathaniel stirred - coming back to the room piece by shuddering piece - he twitched, gasped, choked, cracked apart and wavered on the edge of awareness, yet he also felt that iron will he’d inherited from Mary Hatford steeling, hardening, becoming everything that his father hated. He might bend and beg but at his core he was coal that had already survived impossible pressure, a diamond that could cut as well as shine.

The pain in his wrists was enough to anchor him, at least briefly, before the next bolt of electricity scattered his consciousness to the four winds once more.

Again. Again. And again. Nathaniel sank back into his body, had the world swim into focus, before his father gave the nod and shocked him again, again, again.

But Nathaniel didn’t beg anymore. He bled and he cried, his snot and tears and blood mixed on his ruined face. He barely felt the salt-sharp sting.

His father was talking again. “You know, given how easy it was with the Moreau brat, I really didn’t think you were going to be such a lot of trouble. I’ve spent years guarding the legacy of the Moriyamas – did you never wonder why you weren’t allowed to explore the west wing of the house? Of course not, you never did have any curiosity, any real spine. You were such a useless child. And so fucking expensive. Chasing you. Chasing your whore of a mother. And on top of everything else.

“Do you have any idea how expensive it is to keep nearly twenty people in cryogenic stasis? But those goddamn Moriyamas promised _you_ would be _my_ _key_ to immortality. Living forever was the payment they owed me for years of being their Butcher, decades of hiding their sacrificial army. Moreau was the first I had to do myself of course, but once I proved myself with him, that I could do the job right, they were more than happy to make an agreement with me. _My immortality_. All it would cost me was my useless son and heir. _And then you had to fuck it all up_ and cause _this stain_ on my soul. Ungrateful, pathetic, disappointing _brat_.”

Nathaniel hung in his restraints, nothing left inside him except that endless, devouring rage and desire to live. Whatever his father was saying was dim in his consciousness, only words breaking through the haze.

_Moreau. Legacy. West wing._

Neil tried to raise his head. Couldn’t. The words around him blurred, kaleidoscoping around his skull in a pattern at once recognisable and inconceivable. He tried to breathe in. Tried to remember how to count but barely could hold onto English, let alone French or German or any other language.

Fingers pried his jaw apart and tugged the gag free.

“Do you want to say anything, Junior?”

Nathaniel wanted to tell them to fuck right off but his mouth was numb, his muscles wouldn’t obey. All he could do was gurgle. “Nhhuhhh.”

Giggling, Lola fiddled with the cuffs. They were all that was holding him upright and when she removed them from the pole, he fell forward into her waiting arms. She shoved him back against the chair, gripping his hair and tugging so he was staring up into Nathan’s amused face.

He knew what he’d said last time. How he’d begged. _Please, please don’t. Just let me go, just let me go, just let me go. I’m not anything. I’m not going to talk. Please, please pleasepleaseplease._ He’d been doing his best to convince them he was broken, praying for them to slip, to find a moment to escape. This time he knew better. He could beg and break and give them what they wanted, or he could hold onto this distance, the strange bubble that had formed around him, the blank space where static used to be. Everything was so far away, so much easier here, in his head – but why shouldn't it be? It was hard to be scared of death, after all, when he’d been there already and knew that it was – quite literally – not the end of the world. And here, the pain was less. Here, he was safe from the worst of the machine's power. Here, he was ready to die. 

Nathaniel retreated into the silence, let his body sway in Lola’s grip and listened to his roaring heart telling him to _live, live, live_ and ignored it.

He could just... let go...

Only that was when Nathan’s head shot up and Lola’s arms vanished and Romero’s body thwacked into the wall, a strange, dark blur tearing into his throat until blood splattered his face, his shirt, the floors.

There was a wild, gekkering cry – inhuman, violent, close. It reminded Nathaniel of the night-ghast and he felt his whole body stiffen, guts turning cold with a terror that pulled him back into the basement and the pain. 

Shoving Nathaniel's body backwards so his head lolled down his spine, Lola gave a shriek. She dove for her brother’s body, hands snatching at what was vaguely recognisable as a fox… dark furred and lined with what looked like tribal patterns in its coat. It writhed out of her grasp, teeth drawn back in a snarl then latched onto her arm and _ripped_.

A shot rang out and there was a horrible yelp – but it wasn’t the fox. Lola sank to her knees by her fallen sibling, her eyes shocked and betrayed. Nathan had aimed for the beast and caught her instead. But there was a very good reason for it. A smaller, grey fox was latched onto Nathan’s ankle, refusing to let go even as the Butcher swung his cleaver at its head.

It took a second for Nathaniel to know what was going on, another for him to realise that there was a cold, wet nose pressed to his chin. He let his head droop forward and found himself staring into eyes the colour of bullet-casings.

 _Andrew_.

Andrew was small with a coat the colour of his white blond hair, a shade that brought back memories of snow days and the waste land and the cottage on the wrong side of the Valley. Nathaniel faded towards the back of his head, and Neil’s bruised mouth turned up in a sad smile.

_This had to be a hallucination._

The arctic fox was pushed up on its hind legs, its front paws resting on Neil’s knees, pressing up into his face. It gave a yip and a growl.

 _Come on._ It seemed to say. _Get up. Let’s go, rabbit._

If this was a dream, Neil was going to play along. His hands were free from where Lola had been half way through moving him and he used them to try and push himself upright. He still fell to the floor as soon he tried to stand. Pain shot up his leg.

 _Oh_ , he remembered now _,_  he’d been hamstringed.

A hand on the back of his head wrenched him backwards and away. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Nathan growled, and Neil couldn’t stop the cry that escaped his lips.

But then he was falling back towards the floor and Nathan was bellowing somewhere behind him and Neil was too sluggish to put his hands out before his face smacked into the ground. Above him, he could hear the violent tear of skin, the whistle of the cleaver and then Andrew was next to him again, violence in his gold eyes and his muzzle stained red and he was making that peculiar chittering noise in his throat and Neil was pushing himself to his knees, crawling towards the open door and there were over a half-dozen foxes, each with their muzzles bloodied and grim, surrounding him, nudging him forward.

 _How were they here_? That was Wymack and that was Allison, a fennec, and that was Renee, blue-grey and bright eyed, and that was Matt and Dan and Erik and Nicky. He could recognise them all – their varying orange coats and sooty ears doing nothing to disguise who they were. Only Andrew was so distinctly different though, so white and bright and furious.

They managed to crawl the length of the corridor, nudging at Neil's arms as he started to pull himself up the stairs with his throbbing hands.

Behind them, Neil could hear his father bellowing – then a bang and a yelp – he knew they didn’t have much time. 

But there was something they could do to bring the whole fucking house down.

 _Moreau. The west wing._  

“Fire,” he croaked, as he hauled himself up the stairs, using the steps and the bannister to at least stand on his feet. “We need to start a fire. They keep the hollow men here – somewhere… somewhere in the west wing. We can destroy… destroy all of them.”

Neil’s words were slurred and thick, half chewed and hard to spit out through his dry and damaged mouth.

The foxes all looked up at him and then the matching pair that had to be Matt and Dan shot off – hopefully to find something that could burn the whole bloody place down.

It was strange, this journey, pushing through the hidden portrait to his father’s study, limping out into the marble passage, trailing bloody footprints and hands along the varnished marble floor - _easy to mop_ , his memory supplied, _hard to stain_. The paintings were still there: wretched Actaeon, foxes strung up by their tails, the great boar screaming in the face of flashing blades. 

Neil kept falling, kept pushing himself to his hands and knees, rising to wobbling feet. The foxes kept nudging him, kept yipping at him. _Keep going, keep going_.

Some small part of Neil wanted to know what they were thinking – he was down to four fingers and barely any skin was undamaged, he was burnt and broken and his heartbeat still wasn’t steady. He was fairly certain he didn’t have any hearing in one ear and he’d never be able to run again with what Lola had done to his legs. Even if he escaped, he wasn’t going to live long. Did Andrew want him to live? Did Neil want to live? Part of him wanted to lay down and just die.

“Junior,” Nathan yelled through the halls. “Don’t think you can run from me, son.”

Neil trembled, clung to the walls and tried to keep going. Andrew was close at his side, white fur and eyes that burned.

 _FFFWWIIP. CRACK._ A bullet ricocheted from the floor to the wall and embedded there. Another rang out, missing Neil but catching Renee, who’s speckled muzzle turned to Neil before she flopped against the floor, body going limp.

Neil’s knees buckled. _No_. They all had to survive or what was the point? He felt sick and world spun, his heart threatening to shatter.

But then her body shimmered and vanished, and Andrew wrapped his tail around Neil’s ankles and Allison was yipping at him. Neil could feel second hand emotions radiating through the pendant on his chest – _urgency, reassurance, irritation_. That last one had to be Andrew.

Staggering onwards, Neil managed to duck the next shot and scramble around the corner, out of range. They were so close to the front door now. The respite didn’t last long. The following bullet took out Allison. The next, struck Wymack who gave a furious yowl before his fox body dissipated. It was just Andrew now.

They crossed the vast expanse of the main entrance, Neil relying on adrenalin to stay afoot.

“I’m going to make you beg, boy. I’m going to send you back down there in pieces.”

Neil was going to die. He knew that. He wasn’t scared of that. But he didn’t want it to be in this house. They made it to the door. His fingerless hands struggled with the handles.

Andrew was snarling behind him and Neil fumbled, lost his grip once, twice. The handle turned.

DiMaccio was waiting for them on the other side, bullish face expectant. Neil tried to dodge the hand that grabbed for him but slipped instead. DiMaccio was his father’s red right hand, the worst of all the Butcher’s inner circle. He was the man who did the dirtiest jobs, who took out eyes with an oyster shuck and then sucked the blade clean with his tongue, who had sat on the end of Neil’s bed at night, just watching him, until his mom found out. And now he was clamping a beefy hand around Neil’s throat and wrenching him into the air.

Andrew was having none of this. He launched forward, teeth exposed in a red-stained snarl, ready to lock them into DiMaccio’s flesh.

But the huge man batted the white fox away like he was nothing, sending Andrew’s body into the floor with a horrible crunch.

Neil screamed. His eyes burned and blurred. Twisting and clawing at the hand holding him up, Neil wrenched free – desperate to reach Andrew.

_No, please, please, no._

He could hear himself saying the words, could feel his soul fracturing apart like sheet ice on a lake, his once skating hopes now plummeting into the frozen dark below.

Andrew’s body twitched; his head raised weakly from where it lay on the marble floor. Neil managed to dodge DiMaccio long enough to reach the fox – to reach out and touch the impossibly strong body on the floor. He was warm, his coat thick and beautiful.

“Don’t you dare die for me,” Neil sobbed. “Andrew, don’t.”

But the fox closed its eyes, gave a final shimmer and was gone. Neil gave a broken sob.

DiMaccio didn’t give him any time to recover. He heaved Neil up and slammed him against the wall. Impact smashed the breath out of Neil and his feet kicked out, five inches off the floor, beginning a deadman’s jig. He jerked under the man’s hands, willing his legs to kick a little further, to strike back, to let him fight. 

“You know, I have no fucking idea what this whole Disney princess schtick is with all the goddamn animals, but hearing you cry like that is sure going to make the boss happy.” DiMaccio said.

And Neil no longer had it in him to cling to the survivalist at his core. He was so dizzy, so pained. He felt sick and lightheaded and there was no way out of this – any and all hope was abandoned, because he couldn’t believe in a world without Andrew. He didn’t want to exist it in.

Nathan Wesninski punched his son as soon as he was close enough, struck him with second blow using the butt of his revolver. Neil spat blood but otherwise did nothing. He was falling. Andrew was gone.

“Since you caught the brat, do you want to do the honours?” Nathan asked DiMaccio, passing the man his cleaver.

Neil felt nothing. He felt like a hollow man already.

He lifted dead eyes to his father, whose smile was the cruel wind ready to smash a thousand ships on a wrecker’s coast.

And that was when the world exploded.

The roar of the fire was as hot as it was loud, rumbling and roaring through the Wesninski mansion like a dragon waking to find its treasure gone, full of blistering fury. Neil was dropped to the floor as DiMaccio threw himself over Nathan. Everything sung, vibrated. The air wavered in the heat. The metal bannisters warped. Paintings went up like matches. Neil’s skin was bubbling. When the second wave hit, he curled his battered body as tight as he could and shielded his head with his throbbing arms. _This must have been Matt and Dan_ , he thought, _they’d done it._ He only hoped they’d escaped. The last of the foxes, the best of them. 

It was an eternity before the roaring changed, became the buckling rumble of the fall. Fire crackled everywhere, and Neil could see his father and DiMaccio crushed under stone from the ceiling. They looked dead.

The house was not a house anymore but a world, a time and space of ash and smoke, tumbling around corners, spilling down the stairs. _Things –_ shredded paintings, fragments of paper, shredded furniture – they all whipped around in the storm left behind. They roiled in the fiery draughts and Neil saw where they led: out, out, out. The front door.

If uncurling was agony, crawling through the chaos was a new level of torment: Neil rasped in oxygen and mostly found smoke, glass and broken rubble sliced into his palms. He kept on going.

Neil’s legs stopped obeying him – but he kept on going, dragging his body on broken hands. His breathing became agonised gasps – but he kept on going, refusing to die inside this house.

There was glass in his hair, blood in his mouth, his skin was marbled by dust and blood and tears. The air burnt his lungs. He kept on going.

The front door was blown open and he all but collapses over the threshold – the outside was lush green and bright blue, the Baltimore smell of petrichor and grit deep below the grotty smoke. At the end of the drive, was a sleek black car with tinted windows. As Neil inched himself free of the place he’d once been forced to call home, the car door opened and out stepped a slim Japanese man in a sharp suit. There was a gun in his hand.

Neil didn’t care. He kept going.

He kept crawling until he was on the lawn and his lungs hacked up blood and his hands wouldn’t hold him up anymore.

Neil sprawled on the grass, his lungs burning, sweat on his skin. There was no way he could rise again. This was it. He was done.

Something cold and wet brushed his hand. He turned his head, met two gold bright eyes in a white fox face.

Neil felt a hollow space inside him fill with wonder. _How?_ He wanted to ask. Andrew had died. But if this was the pipe dream, he was happy to die with it. He turned his hand over, palm up and smiled through blood stained teeth.

The fox licked his chin, nuzzled at his jaw, not trying to spur him on, just telling him: _I’m here. You’re not alone._

Neil wanted to pull Andrew in, let him know that this was everything he wanted, everything he needed, that Neil was never letting go.  

He could hear footsteps approaching, crunching over the debris flung from the house.

The white fox whined and lay down beside Neil’s head, its small face pressed to his ruined hand.

“Staring,” Neil mouthed.

Andrew touched his nose to Neil’s cheek, made a noise somewhere between a purr and a coo, like he was trying to remind Neil it was going to be okay. Neil’s smile was tremulous. Their eyes were locked, their fates entwined.

There was the click of a safety catch being taken off.

There was the press of the barrel against Neil’s temple.

Gold eyes held blue. 

Sunshine poured from a wide-open sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Do you want the epilogue? 
> 
> Any thoughts? Feels? Hit me!
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


	17. Epilogue: death (have mercy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are not Nathan Wesninski,” Ichirou had said thoughtfully, and Andrew remembered those awful seconds as Neil’s lips dripped with blood, his breaths rattling from froth-corrupted lungs. Andrew had nestled as close to him as possible – curling his body around Neil’s head, placing his snout in Neil’s fingerless hand. Neil had looked like ruination. Ichirou had watched them like a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT. THE EPILOGUE. 
> 
> I hope it's the one you want. I hope it's the ending that makes sense and that you feel you - and our boys - deserve. 
> 
> No real TWs but there is some... mature ... content towards the end. 
> 
> Apologies that this one is not beta'd - I've just added as soon as I've finished making the big edits.

**Epilogue: death (have mercy)**

_“There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.”- Bram Stroker_

***

 

Against the snow, Andrew was almost camouflaged, the only thing giving him away was the soft shiver of his fur in the wind and the burnished gold eyes that were as intent as they were intelligent. Focused on the little white house, he watched as the day nurse arrived and busied herself opening up the windows and the blinds, setting the coffee station and toaster to ready. Her footprints to the front door lay like a clutch of words strewn over white paper.

He waited in the cold, waited for a sign of the man who spent his days alone in this house. He’d been sick for nearly half a month now, the day nurse coming and going, coming and going, the only sign that the man was still alive. She would arrive and make breakfast, set a table that was never sat at, play the radio for a few hours, turn the lights on and run a bath that Andrew’s finely tuned ears could just about pick up as water burbled into the tub.

He never caught a peek of the man though, the person he was trying to visit, trying to check on.

 _Maybe today,_ he thought, left ear twitching as snow began to fall once more.

The nurse left the kitchen and lights turned on upstairs, so Andrew took a couple steps backward in order to see higher up the house. Andrew would do anything for even a glimpse of mussed hair or a stooped shadow, any sign to let him know how the patient was doing.

Waiting was something he had good practice in – waiting and watching and keeping the monsters at bay – but experience didn’t make this any easier. The last few weeks it had been hard to fend off the bad days, to keep away the memories that splintered like ice off an artic shelf, their broken floes bringing with them flashbacks of Ichirou Moriyama standing with the barrel of a gun to Neil’s temple, wondering whether or not to pull the trigger.

 _“You are not Nathan Wesninski_ ,” Ichirou had said thoughtfully, and Andrew remembered those awful seconds as Neil’s lips dripped with blood, his breaths rattling from froth-corrupted lungs. Andrew had nestled as close to him as possible – curling his body around Neil’s head, placing his snout in Neil’s fingerless hand. Neil had looked like ruination. Ichirou had watched them like a revelation.

 _You’re not alone_. _I’m here._  Andrew had tried to tell Neil without words, sure that it wasn’t enough. He could feel Neil’s physical pain like it was his own, could hear Neil’s jackrabbiting heart beneath his skin.

Watching the house felt like those interminable seconds - those seconds that could have been hours for all that they were full of eternity.

For the nineteenth day in a row, however, there was no sign of life from the house – just the bustling of the nurse as she prepared soups and teas, up and down the stairs all day, until a car pulled up the drive and the cycle started anew. Andrew let himself feel the disappointment. Let himself hurt, just a bit. He was improving at that: allowing himself to feel. Neil’s influence – no matter how reluctantly acknowledged – was still indubitable.

As dusk fell, Andrew slipped away from the loneliness and the soft and delicate, dark snow. Tomorrow would be a fresh page.

He used the twilight to hide his shadow, padding into the shade of the forest and then vanishing between worlds, shedding his fox as easily as water dripped from pine needles. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back into place, and began the short walk back towards Fox Tower.

The waste land was a far quieter place now that the night-ghast didn’t leave the Valley to hunt and feed with the same regularity; most of the Hollow Men were destroyed that night in Baltimore – their mortal bodies consumed by the fire set by Matt and Dan – and Riko couldn’t control the demonic hoards without them. The court had lost Moreau and Williams and Jenkins, as well as several lesser Hollows that Renee and Dan had done their best to guide across to the Other Side. Jenkins hadn’t made it – his spider body being devoured by the ghast before Renee could reach him – but the others, from what Andrew bothered to remember, had made it. Jean had even said _thank you_ , his human face beginning to shine through as the Rift carried him onwards.

The same couldn’t be said of the Butcher and his men – they might have banished the Foxes back to the waste land with their bullets and their knives, but in the underworld, the foxes didn’t _have_ to be Ferrymen. Like sirens they could lure men to their final ends, down into the dark and leave them at the mercy of the night-ghast. And for once that was exactly what they did – first Romero, then Lola, then DiMaccio, and finally the Butcher himself woke up in the waste land, and Allison, Matt, Nicky and Kevin were ready. They skulked in, prowling around those wretched souls, guiding them straight into the hungry maws of the night-ghast. There would be no afterlife for them. Some people simply didn’t deserve a redemption arc, a chance of salvation or reincarnation or whatever happened when souls crossed the Rift.

Andrew was almost sad to have missed hearing their final screams, seeing them going under. From what he understood, none of the Foxes ever felt worse for it.

But regret was for other people. And going back to Neil, pushing once more through the veil and finding his way to Neil’s side was never something he would regret. He might have missed the Foxes taking their vengeance (which in his opinion was simply repayment in kind for all the evil the Butcher had wrought upon so many hundreds of people, Neil included), but he’d been with Neil as he desperately clawed through the grass away from the Wesninski house. He’d been with Neil as Ichirou’s polished boots gleamed against every step in the ash-coated drive. He’d been with Neil as the sun blazed down on them both, as the sky burnt blue, and as Neil faced his death yet again.

When Ichirou had lifted the gun from Neil’s temple, when Neil had let out a broken sob at the quick end being denied him, Andrew had never wished more to be alive again, to have a body in the real world. His beautiful broken boy was beyond pain, beyond hope, _tired,_ so _goddamn tired_. Why couldn’t Ichirou just pull the trigger?

 _“You’re his son. I don’t have to kill you,”_ Ichirou  had said. _“You’ve been to the underworld and returned, I’m sure we could find a use for you.”_

Walking back across the waste land, Andrew closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, counted to ten, exhaled.

Unlike the Foxes who slept easily at night, content with their decision to see the Butcher and his legacy ended, Andrew regularly found his waking thoughts riddled with the memories of those moments – when Ichirou offered Neil _life_ and Andrew could only nudge his nose at Neil’s bloodstained skin because he would never ask anyone to _choose_ death. Not for him.

Andrew pinched his brow, tried to push the memories away.

 _Things were different this time_. _This wasn’t the same thing_. He kept telling himself over and over, kept telling himself he wasn’t actually hoping to see a soul crossover.

Fox Tower loomed large, its shadow reaching out to him as if in welcome. He could hear chatter on the wind – laughter – careless, care-free sounds that seemed at once familiar and entirely alien in the otherwise empty landscape. His shoulders beginning to ease the closer he came to the tower, he could see Nicky and Erik in their window waving down and he raised a jaunty two fingered salute. He entered through the side door, taking the stairs two at a time. With every step, he felt a little less like he was standing on the brink, threatening to fall; a little more like his memory was the moonlight to illuminate the path _home_.  

The apartment was silent when he arrived, but not empty.

A small red fox was curled on the sofa, black paws and tufted ears twitching in sleep. Its muzzle was scarred, a white patch like a cloudburst over one eye. It was one of the oddest-looking foxes Andrew had ever seen. He still wanted to scoop it up close and run his hands through the thick, soft fur like he had a hundred times the winter previously.

Carefully, Andrew stopped the door from slamming and tiptoed across the room to perch on the end of the sofa, brushing along the fox’s left leg with one finger. The animal was awake in an instant, its uncanny blue eyes sharpening on Andrew as it startled to its feet, teeth showing. Less than a second later, it was almost like the small creature was smiling, sitting back on its hind legs and curling the full, black tipped tail around to its front with a proud expression in its gaze.

“So you cracked it,” Andrew said. “Took you long enough.”

The fox tipped its head, tongue flicking out to lick its own nose. Despite the scars and the odd patterning, the fox was slim, long-legged, handsome. And clearly far too smug with itself.

“Preening doesn’t suit you.”

The fox rolled its eyes and stood to butt its head first against Andrew’s leg, then up against his jaw. It was nice. It wasn’t enough.

“Turn back,” Andrew said.

Neil did. One minute there was a long snout and pretty whiskers brushing Andrew’s chin, the next a slightly crooked nose and skin warm enough to feel despite the distance. Neil pressed a tiny kiss to Andrew’s jaw before pulling away with a wide grin.

“I can do it without getting stuck now,” he said simply, like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well done,” Andrew drawled.

Neil wasn’t fazed by Andrew’s lack of apparent interest, he could hear the affection. And it really had taken Neil an age to crack the transformation – an unfortunate side effect of being suspended between life and death one too many times, electrocuted, and shot in the head. It had meant that the previous winter Neil had spent almost all of his time stuck in the shape of a fox, and taken Wymack weeks to figure out the magic that allowed Neil to turn back. Since then Neil and Coach had spent hours trying to work out a way that meant the newest fox wasn’t incapable of transforming back and forth as easily as everyone else. Finally, it looked like Neil was really one of them, his magic stable, his soul steady.

Andrew reached out and smoothed back the curls from Neil’s face, letting his hand rest there when Neil nuzzled into his touch.

“How was Aaron?” Neil asked, letting his head be guided to rest against Andrew’s thigh.

Andrew hummed. He didn’t know what to say. Aaron was ill. Katelyn was doing her best. They were both old though and even their youngest kids were grown-ups with grown-up jobs that meant they couldn’t come to visit as much as they wanted. Aaron had done a good job with them, his tribe of foster children, making them into a real family. In that sense, he was like Coach, handing out second chances like some kind of bleeding heart to people who didn’t even appreciate until it was almost too late. Still, the fact that Aaron hadn’t even made it downstairs since his operation… it made Andrew’s chest tight.

“Bad day?” Neil asked.

Andrew nodded.

“Do you want me to give you space?”

Andrew shook his head, reached out a tired hand. “No. Stay.”

They stayed curled together, Neil’s head in Andrew’s lap, Andrew’s hands in Neil’s hair. No one else was ever witness to this part of their relationship, and Andrew would never say out loud how much he liked that they could be soft, that someone understood and respected his quiet. However, when Andrew heaved his fifth sigh in as many minutes, Neil stirred enough so their eyes could catch and hold.

“You know it’ll be okay. You said Katelyn and Andrea seemed pretty positive when you overheard them the other week, that they caught the problem in time and he’ll be alright.” Neil said, voice barely a murmur. “He’s going to be okay.”

Andrew hummed again, stroking his fingers through the unruly auburn waves. He knew all this, logically, but, “I don’t know what I find harder – the idea of him dying or of him being fine.”

They were big words, full of _feelings_ that Andrew wouldn’t express to anyone except the man at his side. How could he explain to anyone else how much he wanted his brother to live, yet also how much he yearned to close the distance between them at last?

“I think that’s okay too,” said Neil.

Maybe it was. Maybe Andrew just wasn’t used to things being so simple when conflicted, to emotions being so messy and yet still perfectly acceptable. He was a decisive person, he knew himself. Or he had until Neil. “You bring out the worst in me,” he said.

Neil grazed the top of one finger along Andrew’s forearm, “Personally, I disagree.”

Andrew took the moment to shift their positions, to drop down into the seat and rearrange Neil so he was sat astride Andrew’s legs. Neil was loose-limbed and pliant, going where he was guided, happy to let Andrew be in control. He cupped Neil’s chin.

“Kiss me,” Andrew told Neil, thumb stroking along Neil’s lower lip.

Neil did, leaning in and pressing his hungry mouth to Andrew’s.  

Over the last two years, Andrew and Neil shared thousands of kisses – some desperate, some bruising, some gentle, some healing. All of those kisses made Andrew burn, made him feel full with desire, complete like a key turning in its lock. Sometimes they just kissed for the sake of kissing, kissed because they could and they wanted to, kissed because they needed to know the other was there, was solid and real. Sometimes they kissed because they wanted _more_ – and those kisses inevitably led to Neil becoming a weak mess under Andrew’s touch, Andrew’s starving and vicious mouth taking Neil apart and holding him on the edge until neither of them could take it any longer.

The kiss Neil gave Andrew today was one of those that bordered the line between affection and neediness. And as Andrew palmed over Neil’s thighs, tugged hips closer by belt loops, they both knew exactly where it was going.

Shirts were quickly discarded, lips trailing over clavicles as hands danced down scapulas. _Yes._ They moved in unison, seeking out the familiar lines and ridges of each other’s bodies; Neil had never stopped being enamoured with Andrew’s shoulders and biceps, Andrew couldn’t get enough of Neil’s thighs and ass. _Yes._ Fingers traced over scars, ragged edges soothed by sandpaper promises and months of letting each other push behind their walls. _Yes._ Neil was the first to let out a little gasp as Andrew grazed the sensitive bud of his nipple, suckled on the spot below his ear. Andrew was the first to take it further, to find Neil’s zipper and push jeans down narrow hips, to push his hands into Neil’s boxers. _Yes._ Andrew ground his palm against Neil and relished the mewl that escaped those lips; of course, there was no way that Neil wasn’t going to play his part as a natural instigator, and dragged his mouth down Andrew’s throat with a quiet question: _blow me_?

Andrew had plans far larger than a blow job but the thought of Neil’s cock in his mouth was one he was never unhappy about – he shoved Neil so their positions were reversed and then sank to his knees between Neil’s parted thighs. _Fuck he loved those thighs._ He dragged Neil’s jeans off entirely, thankful not to be hampered by shoes or socks. Neil panted above him, eyes the blue of flax fields, the scars across his abdomen wimpling like wind between wild stems.

Andrew directed Neil’s hands to his hair.  “Shoulders and above,” he said, before his hand set a rhythm that his mouth quickly followed, cheeks hollowing, tongue assured.

Neil came apart like rigging after a hard voyage, expert hands uncoiling his lines, loosening his sails. He submitted under Andrew’s tongue, threw his head back, hands stroking and clutching at Andrew’s hair. It didn’t take long for before Neil’s hips stuttered, every other breath catching between a moan and a whimper. This was what Andrew adored. In so many ways, they were opposites. Neil was the unstoppable force, Andrew the immovable object. Yet when they met in the middle it was irresistible – not because there were explosions or world-ending collisions, but because when they pressed against each other it was an act of surrender, because Neil would stay for Andrew and Andrew would bend for Neil. And god did that feel good.

When Andrew pulled his mouth away with a small pop, Neil’s grip became painful.

“Using my fingers, yes or no?” Andrew asked.

Neil’s eyes fluttered open, smile at the edges of his mouth. “God, yes.”

Andrew rolled his eyes at the phrasing but snuck his hand into the drawer of a side table where they’d left lube only days before. Lowering his mouth back to the pink head of Neil’s dick, he licked along the crease and bobbed down, his cool fingers dipping lower. When Andrew pushed inside, Neil shivered and tensed briefly before Andrew’s mouth distracted him enough to relax. This was still new to them – sex still being something they worked up to and were cautious with – but Neil was a fast learner and responsive in a way that Andrew found as fascinating as he did erotic. The noises Neil made, the way his body twitched and tensed, the way he totally gave himself to the moment and to Andrew.

The noise Neil made when Andrew hit _that spot_ inside him made Andrew hum with satisfaction, sending Neil’s hip up and his cock deep into Andrew’s throat. He swallowed around him, humming again and Neil lost his grip on language. Started to babble words that could be prayers or curses or Andrew’s name. Andrew shifted and pulled Neil’s legs over his shoulders to achieve a better angle and all Neil could do was writhe and swear, words hitching like a sob.

Andrew was hard in his pants, uncomfortably so, and he used his free hand to take himself out, to start stroking in time with the push of his fingers inside Neil.

When Neil heard the tell-tale sound of Andrew’s zipper, his eyes slitted open, a look crossing his flushed face that was all want, all need. “Andrew, will you fuck me? Do you want to?”

Even now, he avoided _that word_ , even though it was written plain as the stars in the sky.

“Yes.” _Oh yes,_ Andrew was going to take Neil slow and hard, take him to the brink and make him beg.

Andrew added another finger and Neil’s spine arched off the cushions, his perfect hips, his perfect fucking legs.

Shunting them both round so that Neil ‘s body wasn’t half off the sofa, Andrew shucked his jeans to the floor and gave Neil the time to place a pillow beneath his lower back. They were lined up, Andrew rubbing right where Neil wanted him to without penetrating.

“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.” Neil once said that he felt his heart was trying to tattoo Andrew’s name on the inside of his ribs. Andrew had kissed the stupid words out of his mouth, silently admitting that _Abram_ was a name as true to him as the stars, as the Rift, as the sunset dipping pink over the horizon.

He pushed into Neil with care, stroking along Neil’s legs with his hands, kissing the calves thrown over his shoulders, making sure never to leave that weeping cock alone for too long. Neil exhaled and let him in, his body taking Andrew like it was the most natural thing in the world, for two people to be so close, so intertwined.

A glutton for sensation, Neil was the one who rocked downwards, driving Andrew deeper and making both of them hiss with a mix of pain and pleasure. Andrew’s eyes met Neil’s, and the shiver that ran between them was summer rain and winter sun, an arc of iridescent colour through fog, something impossible and otherworldly, the kind of awe that made you want to believe in god.

“Fuck,” Neil said as he tensed around Andrew and made Andrew’s eyes narrow. “God, move, Andrew, move.”  

True to his silent word, Andrew set a pace that was punishing slow, he found the angle to drive Neil into pure wantoness and hit it over and over. Tears began to prick along the edges of Neil’s lashes, his skin glimmering dew-damp and golden. Andrew leant down to kiss a bead of sweat as he rolled down his jugular, felt the pulse hammering there and smirked. Neil’s hand caught his hair and guided their mouths together, the angle awkward but perfect and Andrew’s breathing became heavy. He pushed forward and drove harder, capturing the keen in Neil’s throat as it rose.

Andrew’s jaw ached, his shoulders and spine feeling tangled and tight, but he stayed to kiss Neil, to keep stealing those delicious sounds from Neil’s mouth, to stop the floodgate of filth that he knew was just waiting to escape. Neil’s mouth would be the end of him, he was as sure of that now as he ever was.

But then Neil gasped, made a sound that Andrew knew meant he was close to the edge and he pulled back, pressed his fingers against Neil’s. It was a sight he’d never tire of, a feeling of that tongue wetting his fingers, sucking and hot – Andrew’s pace faltered but he found it again a moment later when Neil nipped at his index. It was enough. With a spit slicked hand, Andrew fisted Neil’s cock.

“Feels so good, so fucking good, you’re so good. Andrew. So hot, so good.”

Neil had far too much grip on the English language for Andrew’s liking and his thrusts became faster, harder, pounding with a beat that was strong enough to move the sofa a couple inches.

They flew for a moment – their world narrowed down to the places where their bodies melded and melted and moved together. Neil’s hand reached for Andrew’s shoulders, dragging him in closer, deeper, his eyes wild and so bright. They both hit their peak at the same time - with a cry, Neil babbled something nonsensical, let out a cry and came undone with Andrew following him over the edge moments later with a groan that he felt the whole way through his body.

When they came around, maybe moments, maybe hours later, Andrew felt like he might have seen the Other Side. He felt hazy and heavy, complete inside Neil. Neither of them moved as their breathing evened, as their hearts slowed to a matching rhythm.

Not for the first time, Andrew realised that he had changed – he wanted to hold Neil closer, to keep him tight against his chest where he’s safe and warm, his skin flushed a delicate pink, his freckles like constellations that he could spend eternity memorising.  

But Neil pulled away first, not going far, just easing his legs off Andrew’s shoulders, wriggling to wrap his arms around Andrew’s back. Andrew’s head rested on Neil’s scarred chest, his cheek against the iron brand. Neil’s hands carded through his hair, gentle and happy. There was a smile on his face when Andrew peered upwards, so sweet that Andrew’s chest squeezed with an emotion that was _everything_ he never thought he’d have.

“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?” Neil asked, finally. And the emotion only grew stronger. So much stronger it almost hurt, exquisitely. 

Andrew eased himself onto his elbows so he could look down at Neil, the impossible flame of his hair, the guileless blue of his eyes, the too-muchness of Neil _Abram_ Josten – runaway, fighter, fox. Andrew nodded. “Yes.”

Neil’s joy matched the sunrise – gentle colours and full of warmth – and Andrew traced his jaw with one thumb. There was a silent question in the gesture and Neil closed his eyes and leant in to give his answer. The kiss was brief as a butterfly and just as beautiful.

Tomorrow, he and Neil would pad their way to the world of the living, Andrew white as the snow and Neil with his carnation red coat and scarred muzzle. They would traipse across the paper-white earth, leaving behind a looping and twined trail of tiny paws that printed their story into the snow as they crossed over the lip of the world together.

Perhaps Aaron would finally look out of the window or come out to see the snow. Maybe he would look out across the fields and see the two foxes. Maybe he would raise a hand to them and smile, as he had the winter before, when Katelyn pointed them out to him. Maybe he’d know his brother was still here, still happy to wait. Maybe he would see the bright gold eyes and recognise them as the twin of his own.

Andrew wondered what Aaron would think of Neil when they met. Would they get along? Would Neil drive Aaron as mad as he did Andrew? Andrew looked askance and his rabbit and rolled his eyes. _Of course, he would,_ there was no one in the world as irritating as Neil _–_ and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Andrew kissed Neil’s nose, smiled when he felt Neil’s huff against his throat.

And Andrew, for once in his long, long death, acknowledged the warmth in his chest as purest, sweetest, happiness.

Outside, winter hung on the horizon, fresh and clear and glittering. 

It was forever, ready and waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well my doves, that's it. I give you soft. I give you sweet. I give you a HEA. And I give you everything my little writing heart can offer. There may be one shots in this world to tell still, let me know if you want them. But otherwise, this is it. The end of our story. 
> 
> Thoughts. Feelings. Hit me.

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny is a (loose) Ferryman x AFTG crossover where the "Foxes" are a group of "ferrymen" organised by a disillusioned Charon (Wymack) to help souls cross the Wasteland and reach the Other Side. The problem: certain Ravens have been playing with the strings of fate and our little rabbit Neil has been caught in the crosshairs (as per). 
> 
> Looking forward to hearing your thoughts and opinions. Enjoy!
> 
> You can find the Spotify here. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6WoJGR9qDOlZ0f8PmPmJ3N?si=yjCHDNN5QwCqsPrpwnwxiQ  
> And Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.co.uk/thescribblebug/dont-fear-the-reaper/


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